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1323  Walnut  Street.  PHILADELPHIA 


THE    BLOOD    LILIES 


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The  Indian  and  the  Scot  gave  lead  to  the  hounds. 


THE 
BLOOD  LILIES 


BY 


W.    A.    FRASER 

AUTHOR   OF 
MOOSWA,"    "THE   OUTCASTS,"   ETC. 


Illustrated  by  F.   E,   Schoonover 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER^S    SONS 
NEW  YORK.::::::::::::::::  1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published,  September,  1903 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

raiNTma  and  bookbindinq  company 

NEW  YORK 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Indian  and  the  Scot  gave  lead  to  the  hounds  .  Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


They  struggled  and  panted    ...    in  the  swirling  storm  30 

To  Descoigne  lying  in  his  shack  came  Felix  Benoit      .  118 

Mas-ki-sis   (the  Indian  boy) 1 64 

Her  wail  was  like  that  of  a  she- wolf.      .      .            ,     .  192 

Mas-ki-sis    was    chanting:     **0    Great    Chief!    be    not 

angry'* 236 


The  Blood  Lilies 


PROLOGUE 

TO  the  tepee  of  Wolf  Runner,  the  Cree,  had 
come  a  little  brave;  and  in  the  heavy  face 
of  Mi-yah-tis  was  the  joy  of  motherhood. 

"  Mi-yah-tis "  means  the  Ugly  One,  and  no 
one  had  ever  cried  out  against  the  injustice  of  the 
Cree  woman's  naming.  She  was  entitled  to  it  in 
its  application  to  her  lack  of  physical  grace. 

Then  came  the  medicine-dreaming  of  a  name 
for  the  little  brave  that  was  in  the  tepee  of  Wolf 
Runner.  All  through  one  summer  night  a  medi- 
cine-man slept  on  the  cone  of  a  sand-hill,  and, 
slumbering,  listened  for  the  dream-name  the 
spirits  would  bring  for  the  copper-tinged  babe 
that  lay  swathed  in  a  thick  padding  of  softest 
muskeg  moss. 

In  the  morning  the  medicine-man  came  to  the 
tepee  where  waited  Wolf  Runner  and  Mi-yah-tis, 
and  looked  down   at  the  wee  brown  face  that 


The  Blood  Lilies 

peeped  from  the  corded  moss-bag  with  a  troubled 
look  in  his  eyes. 

*' Is  it  a  brave  name,  O  Medicine-maker?" 
queried  Wolf  Runner. 

The  dreamer  nodded;  and  the  eagle  feathers 
that  were  in  his  head-dress  fluttered  in  pride. 

''Is  it  a  name  of  good  fortune?"  asked  the 
Ugly  One. 

The  dreamer  shook  his  head  reluctantly;  and 
the  eagle  feathers  drooped  like  death-plumes. 

"  Speak,  O  great  Medicine-man,"  pleaded 
Wolf  Runner. 

"  As  I  slept,"  said  the  dreamer,  "  I  saw  only 
a  fierce  red  moon  looking  upon  a  prairie  of  blood 
lilies " 

"  And  the  name?  "  asked  the  father. 

"  The  red  moon  is  the  moon  of  disaster — of 
lameness;  and  the  blood  lilies  are  the  lilies  of 
bravery — the  courage  flowers.  Manitou  calls 
them  to  grow  from  the  blood  of  braves  who  fell 
in  battle ;  they  grow  many  on  the  plains  where  our 
people  slew  the  Blackfeet.  The  Lame  One  will 
be  a  great  brave,  full  of  courage." 

"  The  Lame  One  1  "  cried  Mi-yah-tis  in  a  voice 
of  pain. 

"  That  is  the  name?  "  asked  Wolf  Runner. 

"  Yes,  Mas-ki-sis,  the  Lame  One.  But  he  will 
do  a  brave  thing — will  be  a  great  brave." 

2 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"And  the  evil,  the  lameness?"  asked  Mi-yah- 
tis — for  she  was  a  mother. 

"  The  red  moon  of  crying  will  be  at  the  time 
of  the  blood  hlies." 

Thus  was  the  naming  of  Mas-ki-sis  the  Cree, 
son  of  Wolf  Runner  and  Mi-yah-tis. 


CHAPTER   I 

The  Saskatchewan,  coffee-brown  in  spring 
from  the  Rocky  Mountain  floods,  blue-green  at 
the  time  of  little  water  in  summer,  now  rumbled 
down  an  ice-roofed  tunnel  in  greeting  to  Fort 
Donald  as  it  swept  on  to  Lake  Winnipeg. 

And  from  this  post  to  Fort  Garry — which  was 
Winnipeg — lay  a  water-trail  of  five  hundred  miles. 

Fort  Donald  was  somnolent.  The  post  had  a 
bear's  habit  of  hibernating  until  wakened  by  the 
incoming  trappers  with  the  winter  kill  of  fur. 

It  was  Sandy  Cameron's  Malcolm  who  antici- 
pated this  annual  eruption  of  interest,  and  threw 
the  old  Hudson's  Bay  post  into  vibrant  unrest, 
by  proclaiming  that  he  would  marry  Factor  Louis 
Gourelot's  Franchette. 

Malcolm,  being  possessed  of  the  love-blindness, 
did  not  see  the  difficulties;  but  Cameron  the 
elder  did;  Gourelot,  the  nimble-witted,  did  also; 
and  the  whole  station  knew  it  was  impossible. 
The  Church  stood  in  the  way — two  of  them;  for 
Sandy  the  Scot  was  a  Calvinist  ultra,  and  Gourelot 
was  all  but  a  priest  of  the  Roman  Church. 

4 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Love  may  laugh  at  locksmiths,  who  are  bunglers 
at  best,  but  when  the  Priesthood  and  the  Kirk 
stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  breech — ah, 
Messieurs,  that  is  a  different  matter. 

With  Hieland  obduracy  Cameron  the  elder 
stood  out  against  it;  except,  of  course,  the 
Gourelot  lass  should  renounce  the  evil  ways  of 
Rome.  * 

And  with  the  French  factor,  fat  and  verbose, 
heretics  might  be  tolerated  in  a  matter  of  furs 
and  trade,  but  in  a  blood  relationship — "  Sacre ! 
nevair !  "  unless  the  gargon  came  into  the  fold  of 
the  true  Church.  How  else  could  it  be  ?  One  re- 
ligion was  trouble  enough  in  adherence;  but  two 
faiths  in  one  family — "  Mon  Dieu !  "  Gourelot 
snapped  his  fingers  in  derision. 

The  fort  dwellers  took  up  the  matter  with  the 
fierce  energy  of  minds  that  are  like  empty  tene- 
ments. Always  sleeping  on  their  arms,  with  erup- 
tive longings,  the  Catholics  and  Protestants  would 
have  arrayed  themselves  in  fierce  opposition  on  a 
much  slighter  pretext.  Why  did  not  the  Cameron 
choose  one  of  his  own  red-headed  barbarians? 
Why  was  not  the  beautiful,  black-eyed  Franchette 
content  with  some  one  of  the  many  suitors  that 
were  already  of  her  own  faith? 

Franchette  sighed  at  the  cruelty  of  her  people; 
and  the  Scot  swore  by  the  power  of  the  great 

5 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Wallace  that  he'd  marry  the  French  maiden  if  he 
had  to  slay  every  Papist  in  Fort  Donald. 

Now,  men  of  the  west,  where  the  law  is  entirely 
of  themselves,  are  of  great  common-sense;  and 
Sandy  was  a  very  Solomon,  even  among  canny 
Scots;  so  he  said  not  overmuch,  but  harnessed  his 
astute  mind  to  the  problem  that  threatened  dis- 
aster to  Fort  Donald,  and  wrestled  with  it  for 
three  days  and  three  nights.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  he  had  an  interview  with  the  French  factor; 
and  soon  the  post  knew  that  an  armistice  had  been 
proclaimed,  and  a  solemn  compact  entered  into 
between  the  Scot  and  the  Gaul.  The  new  thing 
that  Sandy  had  evolved — for  it  was  all  his  doing — 
was  of  greater  delight  to  these  men  of  the  open 
than  even  the  prospect  of  much  sectarian  blood- 
shed. It  had  all  the  elements  of  a  western 
holiday. 

The  wedding  would  take  place.  And  the  ques- 
tion of  spiritual  supremacy  would  be  settled  by  the 
ability  of  the  Church's  apostles  to  cover  three  hun- 
dred miles  of  territory  by  dog-train  in  the  dead  of 
winter.  That  was  the  compact.  Father  Lemoine 
was  at  St.  Ambrose,  three  hundred  miles  away, 
and  the  Rev.  Ross  Bruce  was  at  Buffalo  Neck, 
twenty  miles  deeper  in  the  western  horizon.  For 
the  upholding  of  the  established  church,  and,  in- 

6 


The  Blood  Lilies 

cidentally,  for  the  delight  of  his  soul,  the  young 
Cameron  would  take  himself  as  swiftly  as  he 
might  over  the  long  trail  to  Buffalo  Neck  and 
bring  the  "  meenlster  "  to  tie  the  knot;  as  emis- 
sary of  the  Gourelot  way  of  belief  Joseph  Des- 
colgne  would  hasten  eagerly  forward  for  the  little 
priest  at  St.  Ambrose. 

And  the  essence  of  the  compact  was  that  which- 
ever one  of  the  ordained  first  crossed  the  Goure- 
lot threshold  should  perform  the  ceremony,  and 
the  children  that  would  surely  accrue  from  this 
union  be  of  his  faith. 

Small  wonder  that  Fort  Donald  recked  not  of 
peltries,  nor  of  the  crop  of  fat  buffalo,  nor  of  any- 
thing but  the  foot-race  between  the  Church  of 
Rome  and  the  Church  of  England. 

There  was  nothing  In  the  world  lacking  to  make 
It  a  true  contest,  for  also  was  Joseph  In  love  with 
Franchette;  and  If  he  must  lose  her,  what  glory  In 
humbling  his  rival  and  gaining  a  victory  for  his 
loved  Mother  of  Rome. 

Sandy  afforded  himself  the  prodigal  luxury  of  a 
smile  as  he  watched  with  canny  eye  the  hilarious 
preparations  of  his  antagonists.  He  had  made  a 
proper  Scotch  deal.  Few  men  In  the  north  could 
trail  with  Malcolm,  and  fewer  still  with  Bruce, 
the   minister.     That   this   was   unknown   to   the 


The  Blood  Lilies 

French  party  troubled  not  at  all  the  conscience  of 
Cameron.  What  Bruce  lacked  in  Jesuitical  sub- 
tlety he  made  up  in  length  of  limb  and  the  en- 
durance of  a  Blackfoot.  Sandy  calculated  that  he 
would  win  by  a  day,  though  he  did  not  forget  that 
fate  and  the  elements  were  also  in  the  contest.  At 
any  rate  he  had  planned  wisely,  and  the  outcome 
must  rest  with  the  Lord. 

They  would  start  at  once.  It  was  half  a  moon 
till  Christmas,  and  the  wedding  would  give  a  fillip 
to  the  saturnalia  of  frisking  that  always  laid  Fort 
Donald  by  the  heels  for  a  week. 

In  the  morning  Malcolm  harnessed  to  his  birch- 
wood  cariole  four  big  dogs  of  mixed  origin — 
Scotch  stag-hounds,  save  for  the  blend  of  savage 
blood  that  had  come  from  their  Northwest  mother. 
In  this  he  took  a  gambler's  chance;  fleeter  of 
foot  than  the  husky  dogs  Joseph  decked  with 
gayly  beribboned  harness,  yet,  if  a  blizzard  came, 
or  a  cutting  ice-crust  formed  on  the  snow,  they 
would  suffer  more  than  the  hardy,  big-footed 
beasts  of  the  Frenchman's  choosing. 

But  the  Scot  was  provident.  Full  fifty  pounds 
of  frozen  white  fish  he  stowed  in  the  cariole  as 
rations  for  his  train.  That  should  land  them  at 
Buffalo  Neck  without  precarious  reliance  upon 
food  by  the  wayside.  With  his  own  bacon,  ban- 
nock, and  blankets,  his  dogs  had  full  weight ;  so  he 

8 


The  Blood  Lilies 

would  ride  not  at  all,  trusting  to  his  strong  legs 
for  transport  over  the  three  hundred  miles. 

Not  even  Captain  Ball,  the  red-faced  Irishman 
who  was  master  of  the  Company's  steamer  In  sum- 
mer, and  who  had  lain  for  two  weeks  of  a  fiercely 
wrenched  ankle,  was  aloof  from  the  starting-point 
when  Malcolm  and  Joe  Descoigne  lined  up  at  the 
Hudson's  Bay  store.  Friend  Gourelot  made  a 
little  speech — he  was  given  to  this  habit;  and 
Franchette,  standing  just  behind  his  broad  back, 
wiped  her  big  black  eyes  furtively.  In  her  heart 
was  a  terrible  apprehension,  but  she  was  not  cry- 
ing— not  at  all,  it  was  the  bitter  wind.  Once  she 
had  asked  Pere  Gourelot  to  choose  some  other 
runner  than  Joseph ;  she  had  seen  something  In  his 
small,  cruel  eyes,  but  had  not  spoken  of  it,  only 
pleaded  that  some  other  might  go  to  bring  the 
little  father — there  were  plenty  of  good  runners 
to  choose  from. 

"Are  you  read-ee?"  asked  the  factor. 

The  tall,  square-shouldered  Scot  for  answer 
swung  on  the  heel  of  his  moccasin,  took  a  step, 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  Franchette.  In  the  girl's 
heart  lay  strong  the  dread  thought  that  had  come 
from  the  evil  look  In  Descoigne's  eyes.  It  stirred 
her  to  a  strange,  sudden  Impulse.  She  raised  her 
face  to  receive  her  lover's  kiss.  Then,  with  cheeks 
red  from  the  fire  of  timid  remorse,  she  fled. 

9 


The  Blood  Lilies 

•  As  he  turned  to  his  place  Cameron  saw  In  the 
eyes  of  Joe  Descolgne  that  which  had  frightened 
Franchette. 

"  A'tim !  "  he  said,  sharply — the  same  meaning 
"  a  dog  ";  and  only  Joseph  knew  that  he  was  not 
speaking  to  his  hounds. 

"  Are  you  read-ee?  "  repeated  Gourelot.  Then, 
loudly,  "Marse!" 

Like  the  crackle  of  Martinis  came  a  volley 
from  the  dog-whips  as  the  two  men  lashed  at  their 
trains.  Then  over  the  frozen  snow  sped  the  swift- 
footed  dogs,  and  behind,  line  in  hand,  with  Indian 
lope,  followed  the  rivals. 

A  babel  of  demoniac  cries  from  redskin,  and 
half-breed,  and  paleface  rose  on  the  clear,  crisp 
air.  Many  lean-throated,  deep-lunged  train  hus- 
kies took  up  the  cry,  until  the  log  shack  that  was 
the  Company's  store  rocked  on  its  foundation  of 
deep-frozen  earth.  Like  the  bellow  of  a  buffalo 
bull,  above  the  shriller  din  was  heard  the  Scotch 
voice  of  big,  gaunt  Sandy  Cameron  in  the  old 
battle-cry  of  his  forefathers,  "  The  Bruce  I  The 
Bruce!'' 

A  dozen  young  men  of  the  post,  priding  in 
their  fleetness  of  foot,  had  chased  after  the  two 
Argonauts  in  an  exhilaration  of  excitement.  Now 
they  were  trudging  back;  and  over  the  crest  of  a 
distant  hill  Malcolm   and  Joseph  were  slipping 

lO 


The  Blood  Lilies 

from  sight — like  the  spars  of  a  ship  taking  the 
curve  of  the  sea. 

"  Faith,  it'll  be  the  hottest  race  in  the  Tirri to- 
nes," opinionated  Ball;  "  I'll  bet  tin  skins  that 
Sandy's  Malcolm  does  him  up." 

Eagerly  the  French  party  took  the  captain's 
wager,  for  who  that  is  an  Indian,  or  of  the  Ind- 
ian's existence,  is  not  a  gambler.  The  taint  hangs 
to  their  life  of  chance  like  smoke  to  the  place  of 
fire. 

At  thirty  miles  Malcolm  spelled  his  dogs  for  a 
smoke  and  a  few  minutes  of  rest;  but  Descoigne 
flitted  on  through  the  forest,  and  the  Scot  saw  him 
no  more.  Malcolm  wondered  at  the  cunning 
Frenchman's  present  lack  of  astuteness.  Joseph 
would  most  certainly  do  up  his  dogs,  for  they 
were  of  a  plodding  kind.  With  Celtic  precision 
he  himself  had  mapped  out  the  three  hundred 
miles  into  six  days'  travel,  and  too  much  haste  at 
the  start  meant  maimed  slowness  at  the  end. 

That  night,  by  intuition  knowing  that  he  had 
reeled  off  his  full  fifty  miles,  Malcolm  brushed  the 
fleece  of  snow  from  the  brown  skin  of  the  earth  in 
a  clump  of  gnarled  jack-pine,  built  a  huge  fire  of 
wood,  eager  of  flame  because  of  its  resin,  and, 
wrapped  in  his  warm  rabbit-robe,  close  huddled 
to  his  dogs,  feet  to  fire,  slept  a  sleep  of  nothing- 
ness. 

II 


The  Blood  Lilies 

In  the  hour  that  is  fierce  in  its  ice  breath,  the 
hour  before  dawn,  he  stirred  the  embers,  paid 
hght  tribute  to  his  hunger,  and  under  the  blinking 
stars  that  caught  at  the  frost  diamonds  which 
decked  the  jack-pines  and  flashed  them  blue  and 
red  and  gold,  he  sped  on  again  to  the  bringing 
of  the  Bruce. 

All  that  day  there  was  only  the  snow-muffled 
trail  of  Joseph  to  tell  him  of  his  rival.  Over  and 
over  again  he  muttered:  "The  French  fool!  I 
have  him!  His  dogs,  that  are  not  swift,  will  die 
because  of  this." 

But  even  as  he  reviled  Descoigne  as  a  fool,  in 
the  other's  folly  was  the  method  of  an  evil 
thought. 

The  Frenchman  sped  on  till  he  came  to  the 
tepee  of  Wolf  Runner — Wolf  Runner  the  Soli- 
tary, at  Vermilion  Lake. 

As  the  bells  on  Descoigne's  huskies  tinkled  down 
the  frost-snapping  air  the  Indian's  dogs  set  up  a 
howl  of  forbidding  defiance. 

The  Cree  sprang  from  his  camp-fire  to  the  open, 
and  driving  back  the  fang-showing  brutes  with  a 
loaded  dog-whip,  welcomed  the  visitor. 

"  Ho,  Boy !  come  in.    There  is  tea  in  the  tepee." 

But  Descoigne  declined  the  hospitality;  he  did 
not  want  the  Scotchman  to  find  him  there. 

"  I  go  me  to  Calf  Shirt's,  brother,"  he  replied 

12 


The  Blood  Lilies 

in  Cree.  "You  are  Wolf  Runner;  is  that  not 
true?" 

The  Indian  nodded. 

"  And  thou  are  killing  fur  for  Ladouceur,  the 
Free  Trader?" 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  the  Cree,  suspiciously; 
"  I  will  sell  the  kill  of  fur  perhaps  to  Ladouceur." 

"  Mewasin  (good).  We  are  brothers  in  en- 
mity to  the  Company.  They,  our  tyrants,  have 
sent  one  who  is  of  the  accursed  Protestant  faith  to 
make  war  on  the  Free  Traders." 

The  Indian's  bead  eyes  snapped  viciously.  Des- 
coigne  chuckled  sardonically  to  himself.  He  had 
touched  on  the  one  bitter  interest  in  the  red  man's 
life — the  monopoly  of  the  Company  had  more 
than  once  goaded  them  to  bloodshed. 

"  One  follows,"  he  continued,  "  who  hastens  to 
obtain  evidence  against  Ladouceur  and  his  friends ; 
also  other  traders." 

"  But  the  tea,"  cried  Wolf  Runner;  "  come  to 
the  fire  and  drink  tea,  and  smoke — Mi-yah-tis  will 
make  tea  for  us." 

"  I  must  hasten,"  answered  Descoigne.  "  Can 
you  not  put  astray  this  evil  one  of  the  accursed 
faith  who  follows,  to  the  end  that  I  may  warn  all 
men  who  are  not  slaves  to  the  Company?  " 

"  It  is  like  a  fox  standing  against  a  wolf-pack," 
answered  Wolf  Runner.     "  The  Company  make 

13 


The  Blood  Lilies 

a  strong  hunt  when  they  are  on  the  trail  of  one 
man." 

The  Frenchman  understood;  the  Indian  hesi- 
tated to  draw  the  wrath  of  the  Company  upon 
himself. 

*'  Listen,  nichie,"  Descoigne  said;  "  is  not  Fac- 
tor Gourelot  of  the  same  faith;  is  he  not  of  the 
flock  of  the  little  father;  and  is  not  the  one  who 
follows  me  a  heretic?  This  trouble  for  the  Free 
Traders  is  from  the  Company  at  Fort  Garry;  the 
big  ogama  at  Fort  Garry  has  done  this  thing. 
If  this  is  not  true,  why  am  I  here?  '' 

The  Indian  eyed  Descoigne  suspiciously.  The 
latter  proceeded: 

"  The  factor  will  be  pleased  if  you  take  this 
trouble  off  his  hands,  nichie.  See,  he  has  even  sent 
this  tobacco,  and  ten  skins  in  good  money — ^here 
it  is.  The  moneas,  who  is  a  heretic,  will  surely 
make  here  for  his  night  camp.  Do  you  send  him 
on  the  blind  trail  that  loses  itself  in  the  great 
muskeg.  What  I  have  said  is  all  true — ^by  our 
faith  it  is  true.  Now  I  go.  Do  you  this  thing, 
and  there  will  always  be  food  to  your  eating  at 
Fort  Donald." 

The  Frenchman,  leaving  his  subtle  lie  to  rankle 
in  the  Indian's  mind,  slipped  down  the  trail 
through  the  poplars,  and  presently  the  silver  note 
of  his  dog-bells  was  lost  in  the  forest. 

14 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Wolf  Runner  stood  watching  the  swinging  cari- 
ole  as  it  glided  over  the  white  floor  of  the  west- 
ern trail,  and  in  his  mind,  always  fierce  in  resent- 
ment, rankled  the  poisoned  thought  that  those 
who  were  not  bondmen  to  the  Company  were 
forever  and  ever  persecuted.  In  reality  it  was 
years  since  there  had  been  violent  prosecution  of 
Free  Traders,  but  this  Cree  of  the  forest  knew 
not  of  the  changed  law. 

As  Wolf  Runner  turned  to  his  tepee  the  dark 
face  of  Mi-yah-tis  suddenly  vanished  from  its 
doorway,  and  he  found  her  busy  over  the  fire. 

''  Did  the  moneas  speak  of  our  little  Mas-ki- 
sis?"  the  Cree  woman  asked  presently.  "Did 
he  see  little  Otter  down  the  trail?  " 

"  No,"  the  husband  answered.  "  This  is  in- 
deed the  thin  year  for  wapoos  (the  rabbit), 
and  Mas-ki-sis  sets  his  snares  at  a  far  distance. 
Still  it  is  cold,  and  he  should  be  here  in  the 
lodge." 

"  The  moneas  had  much  talk,"  hazarded  the 
Ugly  One,  questioningly.  "  The  French  are  so 
full  of  speech  that  perhaps  they  sometimes  come 
to  lies." 

"  He  is  our  friend,"  answered  Wolf  Runner, 
"  and  his  talk  was  for  our  good,  and  the  good  of 
Ladouceur." 

"  He  Is  also  French,"  retorted  Mi-yah-tis. 
15 


The  Blood  Lilies 

At  that  Instant  the  harsh-throated  dogs  huddled 
at  the  door  again  set  up  a  discordant  challenge. 

"  It's  the  one,"  commented  Wolf  Runner, 
thrusting  his  head  through  the  door-flap. 

"  And  Mas-kl-sis !  '*  exclaimed  the  squaw,  peer- 
ing over  his  shoulder. 

Wolf  Runner  stepped  through  the  opening,  and 
the  boy,  tumbling  from  Malcolm's  cariole,  ran 
shyly  to  his  mother  in  the  tepee. 

It  was  now  twelve  seasons  of  the  Blood  Lilies 
reddening,  and  the  lameness  of  disaster  had  not 
come  to  him. 

"  The  big  ogama  came  on  the  trail  as  I  was 
carrying  these  three  wapoos,  and  made  me  ride 
behind  his  beautiful  dogs,"  said  Mas-kl-sis  to  Mi- 
yah-tis. 

"Ho,  nichie !  can  I  make  camp  In  your  tepee?  " 
the  Scotchman  asked. 

"  It  is  time  to  make  camp,  and  there  Is  room," 
answered  Wolf  Runner. 

Malcolm  threw  a  frozen  white-fish  to  each  of 
the  dogs.  He  brought  forth  his  bacon  and  tea 
and  passed  them  to  Ml-yah-tis.  Custom  Indicated 
that  they  would  all  sup  from  the  guest's  provisions, 
which  they  did.  Then  he  smoked  his  tobacco, 
even  the  Ugly  One  filling  her  little  gray  stone 
pipe  from  the  yellow  leaf. 

The  Indian  spoke  little.  Had  Malcolm  been 
i6 


The  Blood  Lilies 

communicative,  Descolgne's  evil  plan  might  have 
gone  awry,  but  In  his  young  love  of  Franchette, 
that  was  so  great  a  thing,  he  was  sensitive,  pos- 
sessed of  Inherent  Scotch  reticence.  It  and  his 
mission  were  not  something  to  be  discussed  with 
a  redskin.  So,  when  Wolf  Runner,  yielding  to  his 
Indian  curiosity,  asked  with  feigned  Indifference 
the  why  for  of  this  midwinter  trip,  he  parried  the 
questions  or  answered  not  at  all. 

The  Northland  Is  a  land  of  much  free  discus- 
sion, and  when  the  guest  sought  to  conceal  the 
motives  of  his  journey  It  was  proof  to  the  Crce 
that  he  was  possessed  of  duplicity. 

When  the  white  man.  In  a  desire  to  please  Wolf 
Runner,  questioned  him  of  his  trapping  luck,  the 
Indian's  suspicions  were  Increased;  surely  It  was 
as  Descolgne  had  said. 

So  when  Malcolm  asked  of  the  western  trail, 
if  there  were  any  short  cuts  In  the  knowledge  of 
the  Indian,  Wolf  Runner  told  him  of  the  blind 
trail  that  was  through  the  great  muskeg  and  over 
Mah-chee  Manitou's  tepee;  only  the  Indian  did 
not  give  It  Its  evil  name,  but  called  it  Long  Lake. 
He  took  a  large  sheet  of  birch-bark,  and  on  Its 
pink  parchment  mapped  with  a  willow  charcoal 
the  secret  path  as  It  wound  through  the  big  mus- 
keg, many  miles  in  extent. 

First  there  was  the  stream  which  came  from  the 
17 


The  Blood  Lilies 

great  swamp  to  Vermilion — this  Wolf  Runner  In- 
dicated on  the  birch-bark  with  a  wavering  black 
line;  and  after  that  the  little  dots,  which  were  the 
long  tamaric  swamp  that  Malcolm  was  to  skirt; 
then  the  flat  that  would  be  smooth  snow,  because 
in  summer  there  grew  only  the  soft  gray  velvet  of 
bottomless  moss.  On  Wolf  Runner's  map  this  was 
a  blank  oval.  And  then  were  the  black  trunks  of 
spruce  that  had  been  killed  by  the  great  fire,  a 
generation  before,  dead  sentinels  of  a  living  past. 

After  that  the  ogama,  holding  the  sun  on  his 
left  cheek,  would  come  to  the  little  stream  that 
ran  Into  Long  Lake ;  and  the  stream,  being  frozen, 
would  be  like  a  smooth  road.  And  there  was  the 
lake,  and  at  this  point,  through  a  cleft  in  the  hill- 
barrier,  cut  the  trail;  and  so  to  the  other  side. 
And  the  gain  would  be  full  four  hours  of  swift 
running.  In  summer  no  man  might  cross  the  mus- 
keg, for  it  was  bottomless;  therefore  they  knew 
not  of  its  winter  path — only  Wolf  Runner — and 
now  Malcolm,  because  of  the  birch-bark. 

The  Indian  would  send  Mas-ki-sis  with  the 
ogama  in  the  morning  to  show  him  where  the 
short  trail  forked  from  the  long,  and  Into  the 
muskeg. 

As  Wolf  Runner  set  his  trap  for  the  white 
man  whom  he  thought  a  spy  because  of  Des- 
coigne's  lies,   the  Ugly  One,   whose  heavy   face 

i8 


The  Blood  Lilies 

seemed  devoid  of  interest,  telegraphed  from  the 
little  furtive  eyes  a  measure  of  discontent  to  Mas- 
ki-sis.  Once,  as  the  husband  talked,  she  passed  the 
back  of  her  right  hand  under  the  palm  of  her  left; 
the  boy  knew  that  in  their  sign  language  this  meant 
underhanded  dealing. 

Joyously  the  next  morning  the  Scot  followed  his 
lean  hounds ;  because  of  the  knowledge  he  had  from 
Wolf  Runner  he  would  steal  hours  from  the  long 
trail,  and  his  rival,  hastening  on,  would  lose  this 
chance. 

With  him  went  little  Mas-ki-sis,  trailing  be- 
hind the  cariole  with  his  small  snow-shoes  strapped 
to  his  back. 

The  Scot  knew  not  that  the  little  pagan  was 
an  embodied  good  angel  that  Franchette's  prayers 
had  won  to  the  protection  of  her  lover. 

When  the  first  bend  of  the  trail  into  the  forest 
hid  Wolf  Runner's  tepee,  Malcolm  stopped  his 
dogs  and  lifted  Mas-ki-sis  to  the  cariole. 

In  the  little  lad's  mind  a  jumble  of  thoughts 
worked.  The  big  ogama  was  possessed  of  a  good 
heart — that  much  was  certain;  also  there  was  no 
such  trail  as  Wolf  Runner,  the  father,  had  drawn 
with  the  willow  charcoal;  and  if  the  ogama  passed 
into  the  muskeg  of  dread,  he  would  find  not  his 
way  to  the  other  side  of  Evil  Spirit  Lake,  nor 
anywhere. 

19 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Ml-yah-tis  had  told  him  that  all  this  was  be- 
cause of  lies  which  had  been  spoken  by  the  other 
white  man. 

The  lad  well  knew  where  the  blind  trail  turned 
Into  the  muskeg — just  at  the  swamp's  edge  where 
was  an  old  bear's  deadfall;  but  as  they  passed  it, 
the  dogs  swift  running,  Mas-ki-sis  blinked  his  round 
black  eyes  and  saw  nothing  but  the  gay  rosettes  that 
were  on  the  train-harness. 

Malcolm,  trusting  the  fork  in  the  trail  to  his 
guide,  nestled  the  memory  of  Franchette  in  his 
mind  and  ran  as  one  blind.  At  last  it  was  even 
his  hunger  that  told  the  Scotchman  he  had  trav- 
elled far.  He  spoke  to  Mas-ki-sis  of  the  trail. 
The  boy  did  not  answer.  Malcolm,  running  at 
the  side  of  his  cariole,  looked  down  at  the  little 
dark  face — the  eyes  were  closed. 

"The  kid's  asleep,  whatever!"  he  exclaimed; 
and  once  more  the  dogs  were  stopped,  and  some- 
thing that  felt  like  a  bear's  paw  was  shaking  the 
lad  by  the  shoulder. 

If  Malcolm  had  been  at  all  a  suspicious  Scot 
he  might  have  thought  the  eyes  a  little  too  slow 
in  parting  their  lids,  considering  the  rough  awak- 
ening. But  Mas-ki-sIs  was  acting;  he  was  very 
much  awake,  and  the  assumed  sleep  was  a  phase 
of  his  woodland  cunning. 

Yes,  they  had  passed  the  trail  to  the  muskeg, 

20 


The   Blood  Lilies 

long  ago,  Mas-ki-sis  admitted;  the  ogama  must 
not  be  angry;  he  was  tired — it  was  so  warm  in 
the  rabbit-robe,  and  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

Yes,  It  was  difficult  to  find  the  fork  into  the 
muskeg;  also  it  was  far  on  the  back  trail. 

"Get  oot,  get  oot!''  roared  Malcolm,  angry 
beyond  count.  "  All  nichies  are  liars,  damn  liars; 
I  don't  believe  there's  a  trail  at  all  just." 

With  precipitate  energy  Mas-ki-sis  tumbled 
from  the  cariole  and  fled  from  the  wrath  of  the 
ogama. 

Malcolm,  angry  that  he  had  missed  the  short 
cut,  but  fearing  to  risk  loss  of  time  by  returning, 
sped  forward. 

Toward  evening  he  topped  a  hill,  and  behind 
him  was  the  lake  of  Mah-chee  Manitou.  He  had 
missed  the  short  cut,  but  he  marked  It  for  his  re- 
turn— he  would  steal  from  Descoigne  then  the 
four  hours. 

Mas-ki-sis  had  added  miles  to  his  journey  of 
return  by  his  act  of  goodness;  but  even  in  his  un- 
tutored mind  was  a  something  that  tied  wings  to 
his  feet  and  shortened  the  leagues  of  snow-path, 
so  that  he  came  again  to  Vermilion  In  exhilaration 
of  spirit. 

Ml-yah-tis,  his  mother,  looked  into  his  eyes 
with  a  question,  and  Mas-ki-sis  looked  back  again. 
Then  the  old  squaw  put  her  huge  hand  on  the 

21 


The  Blood  Lilies 

little  head,  and  stroked  the  braids  of  black  hair, 
and  pitied  him  for  being  tired,  and  gave  him  a 
delicious  "  Boulee." 

That  night  the  snow  fell,  and  to  Buffalo  Neck 
Malcolm  found  not  even  the  trail  of  Descoigne. 
That  was  nothing;  up  the  Saskatchewan  were  three 
roads — one  on  the  river-ice,  and  one  either  side. 


22 


CHAPTER    II 

On  the  sixth  day  Malcolm  came  to  Buffalo 
Neck,  and  Ross  Bruce  learned  how  loudly  the 
Kirk  called  for  him  at  Fort  Donald. 

The  Rev.  Ross  Bruce  was  in  the  Church  of 
England  because  of  zeal  for  his  fellow-Scots.  The 
Presbyterians  had  paid  not  overmuch  attention  to 
the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  Scots  who  had  gone 
afield  to  the  American  Northland;  the  ardor  of 
their  missions  was  expended  in  a  different  part  of 
the  globe.  The  Bruce  had  become  an  Anglican 
that  he  might  labor  in  a  field  wherein  he  might 
be  cheered  at  times  by  a  Scotch  burr  in  the  re- 
sponses. 

And  at  St.  Ambrose  also  was  Joe  Descoigne 
knocking  at  the  door  of  Father  Lemoine.  What 
matter  that  his  dogs  were  done  for;  it  was  not  in 
the  compact  that  he  should  not  take  a  fresh  train, 
and  at  the  mission  were  many  of  a  full-fed 
strength.  The  little  priest  chuckled  softly  through 
his  fat  throat  when  the  Frenchman  spoke  of  the 
Scotch  heretic's  stupidity  in  overlooking  this  fact. 
By  the  Virgin  I  all  the  heretics  were  blind  of  their 

23 


The  Blood  Lilies 

own  folly.  The  outcast  teacher  of  lies,  M*sieu 
Bruce,  never  had  dogs;  and,  if  he  had,  they  were 
starvelings,  because  of  the  accursed  poverty  of  the 
heretical  Protestants. 

Joseph  spoke  not  of  Wolf  Runner  and  the  evil 
lake.  Perhaps  even  then  the  hated  Malcolm  was 
dead  in  its  poison  waters. 

The  Bruce  was  not  more  eager  to  the  good 
cause  than  was  the  little  father ;  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, behind  fresh  dogs,  close  muffled  in  fur,  went 
the  plump  embodiment  of  the  power  of  Rome 
toward  the  watchers  at  Fort  Donald. 

The  Kirk  ran.  With  long  strides  the  guardian 
of  its  hopes  in  that  hopeless  land  hurried  beside 
his  "  brither  Scot  " :  love,  and  Christian  zeal,  and 
the  glory  of  Old  Scotia  were  jfierce-pointed  goads 
that  drove  the  two  stalwarts  in  silent  haste  over 
league  after  league  of  marble  snow  that  shim- 
mered back  the  blinding  light  of  the  sun. 

The  big  hounds  had  six  days  of  harness  strain 
upon  them,  as  against  the  plump  weight  of  the 
man-of-confession  that  steadied  the  eager  flight  of 
Descoigne's  strong-limbed  huskies. 

So  for  three  days,  almost  without  speech,  the 
two  parties  glided  through  the  wilderness  with  no 
sight  of  each  other. 

On  the  fourth,  at  the  lone  pine,  which  was  Mal- 
colm's mark  for  the  secret  trail,  he  took  the  sun 

24 


The  Blood  Lilies 

over  his  right  shoulder,  called  *'YuhI"  to  the 
dogs,  and  set  his  face  for  Long  Lake. 

In  two  hours  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  lake. 
With  a  cry  of  joy  Malcolm  pointed  across  its  nar- 
row bosom,  saying,  "  I  have  knocked  four  hours 
from  the  trail."  Bruce  was  looking  at  a  fringe 
of  black  water  that  cut  a  thin  slice  between  ice  and 
shore. 

"  Who  told  you  of  this  trail?  "  he  asked,  sud- 
denly. 

"  Wolf  Runner.'* 

"  Wolf  Runner — Wolf  Runner  of  the  Miteo 
sect!  Lad,  if  you  once  set  foot  on  yon  ice  you'd 
be  in  at  no  wedding;  it's  the  Deil's  tepee;  do  you 
not  see  his  breath?"  He  pointed  to  wreaths  of 
yellow  vapor  that  sputtered  at  many  places. 

"  Do  ye  say,  Minister,  it's  Mah-chee's  tepee — 
the  Death  Lake?"  queried  Malcolm,  with  a  sol- 
emn face. 

"Ay,  lad;  it's  full  of  sulphur  springs,  and  the 
ice  is  fair  treacherous.  No  man  risks  his  life  on 
yon  lake.  And  beyond  it  is  the  fierce  muskeg  that 
never  gives  up  its  victim." 

"  I  was  in  gran'  luck  I  didn't  find  it  going," 
cried  Malcolm. 

"  You  were  in  favor  of  God,"  corrected  the 
minister. 

"  I'll  settle  with  Wolf  Runner  for  this,"  declared 
25 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Malcolm,  fiercely;  "  Til  tak'  a  grip  of  the  dog's 
throat  that'll  land  him  in  a  hotter  place  than 
Devil's  Lake." 

"  Cameron,"  said  Bruce,  warningly,  *'  you  must 
not  make  threats  like  that;  the  Lord  didn't  save 
you  for  the  purpose  of  murder.  Think  of  the 
wedding,  lad.  And  now  for  the  back  trail;  we 
must  circle  the  lake." 

"  It's  queer  that  I  didn't  think  of  it,  for  I've 
heard  mony  times  of  yon  dev'lish  hole." 

"  There  are  few  know  of  it,  lad,"  replied  Bruce, 
"  for  the  Indians  will  not  talk  about  it." 

The  four  hours  that  Malcolm  would  have  stolen 
from  Joe  Descoigne  became  a  gift  of  five  to  the 
Frenchman. 

As  they  swung  around  the  north  end  of  the 
lake  they  struck  the  furrow  of  Joseph's  sled. 
Malcolm  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  disappointment. 
Wolf  Runner's  trick  had  held  him  in  its  leash 
while  his  opponent  slipped  into  the  lead. 

"  Two  hours,"  panted  the  Bruce,  pointing  to 
the  new-turned  snow,  as  they  sped  on  again.  At 
three  miles  the  Frenchman's  way  forked  to  the 
left.  Malcolm  braced  himself  to  the  line  of  his 
cariole,  and  stopped  his  hounds  with  a  sharp 
"  Whoa  1  " 

"  What's  he  up  to  now?  "  he  queried  of  Bruce. 

"  It's  no  trick;  the  priest  goes  by  way  of  Metis 
26 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Mission — it  lies  yonder.  Joseph  runs  light  in 
rations  because  of  the  little  father's  weight;  he'll 
have  fish  for  his  dogs  and  grub  for  themselves 
from  Father  Le  Fevre;  I'm  thinkin'  they'll  make 
camp  there  for  the  night." 

"  Marse !  "  cried  Malcolm,  and  once  more,  at 
a  swinging  dog-lope,  the  Anglican  Church,  leader 
and  adherent,  cut  at  the  distance  that  was  between 
it  and  the  vanquishing  of  its  enemies. 

In  the  young  Scot's  heart  was  a  lust  for  the 
punishment  of  Wolf  Runner.  The  Western  school 
of  ethics  had  fashioned  his  mind  to  the  dogma 
that  death  was  but  fair  justice  for  one  who  had 
attempted  a  cowardly  murder.  To  hold  in  his 
sinewy  hands  the  lying  throat  of  this  treacherous 
one  would  be  a  fierce  joy.  If  Wolf  Runner  fought 
back  until  one  of  their  lives  went  out  in  the  strug- 
gle, it  would  be  the  redskin's. 

Bruce  knew.  From  under  his  shaggy  Scotch 
brows  he  read  all  these  dark  thoughts  in  his  com- 
panion's face.  If  he  could  help  it,  they  should  not 
reach  to  Vermilion  that  night.  There  was  sure 
to  be  an  angry  quarrel  leading  to  worse. 

"  Where  do  we  make  camp?  "  he  asked. 

"  In  Wolf  Runner's  tepee,"  answered  Malcolm. 

"  The  dogs  are  tired — they  go  slower,"  haz- 
arded the  minister.  "  It  grows  dark  early,  too," 
he  added,  suddenly  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  trail 

27 


The  Blood  Lilies 

lay  dim  to  their  feet.  "  Better  out-span  and  spell," 
he  suggested,  speaking  again;  "  a  cup  of  tea  for 
ourselves  and  a  fish  to  the  dogs'll  carry  us  to  the 
nichie's." 

Malcolm  checked  his  hounds;  and  Bruce, 
wrenching  some  dwarf  red-willows  from  their 
rotted  roots,  set  about  building  a  fire. 

Malcolm  straightened  himself  up  suddenly  as 
a  singing  moan  came  through  the  attuned  spikes 
of  the  gloomed  pines.  The  wind  chilled  his  cheek 
as  though  he  had  dipped  it  in  quick-evaporating 
spirits.  It  was  like  a  kiss  from  death-lips.  He 
moistened  his  palm  and  held  it  up.  Ere  the  arm 
was  straight  his  hand  was  ice-coated. 

"  What's  wrong,  lad?  "  asked  the  minister. 

"  There's  something  uncanny  in  the  wind,"  an- 
swered Cameron,  nodding  his  head  toward  the 
west.  "  I'm  thinkin'  we'd  best  pull  out  soon's 
we've  stowed  this  tucker;  we  must  hustle  a  bit." 
As  they  drank  the  hot  tea,  Malcolm  pointed  at 
the  hound  leader,  who  was  sniffing  and  cocking 
his  nose  restlessly  down  the  dark  vault  of  the  deep 
pines. 

"  Wallace  scents  it,"  he  said. 

"The  storm?"  queried  the  minister. 

The  other  nodded,  and,  rising,  threw  the  tin 
tea-kettle  into  the  cariole.  "  Let's  get  a  move 
on,"  he  admonished. 

28 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  minister  answered  something,  but  a  wall 
from  the  forest  drowned  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 

*'  Quick,  man  I  "  called  Cameron. 

"  Too  late,"  bellowed  the  deep  voice  of  Bruce 
in  his  ear;  "  you'd  not  get  a  hundred  yards — youM 
be  smithered;  the  dogs — gather  them!  " 

Ross  Bruce  was  a  madman.  In  frenzy  he 
wrenched  brown-barked  willow  after  willow,  and 
threw  them  close  to  the  fire  that  flared  angrily  as 
the  rising  wind  smote  at  the  embers. 

"Make  camp!  make  camp!"  he  yelled;  and 
Malcolm  turned  the  sled  sideways  to  the  storm 
that  was  now  driving  splinters  of  steel — diamond- 
pointed  fragments  of  ice — into  his  face.  That  was 
for  a  barricade  that  the  snow  might  pile  up  and 
shelter  them.  The  dogs  knew.  Tremblingly  they 
huddled  closer  to  the  toboggan.  Then  the  two 
men  piled  the  fuel  on  top  of  the  sled.  They 
were  like  fitful  shadows  as  they  struggled  and 
panted  in  the  gloom  that  was  hastened  by  the 
swirling  storm. 

"Turn  in!"  roared  Bruce,  clutching  at  Mal- 
colm and  drawing  him  down  where  the  hounds  lay. 

"Keep  the  dogs  close;  they'll  warm  us — it's 
perishin'  cold,"  cried  Malcolm.  "  The  fire'll  not 
stand— we  must  just  trust  to  the  dogs." 

"  And  the  Lord,  lad,"  admonished  Bruce. 

Back  to  back,  roofed  by  the  rabbit-robes  turned 
29 


The  Blood  Lilies 

to  a  white  shroud,  the  two  men  lay,  while  the 
hounds,  whining  with  instinctive  fear,  edged  closer 
and  closer  about  them.  Even  the  lire  was  fighting 
for  its  life  as  Bruce,  with  a  sweep  of  his  mighty 
arm,  threw  faggots  upon  it. 

"  I'm  thinkin',  Minister,"  said  Malcolm. 

"  I'm  shivering,"  retorted  Bruce. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  repeated  Malcolm,  "  that  we 
may  be  here  for  three  days  and  nichts,  like  Jonah 
in  the  whale's  belly." 

*'  Jonah  was  warm,"  commented  the  minister. 

"  We'll  not  starve,  Minister.  I  have  a  ration 
of  bacon  under  my  head." 

The  fierce  struggle  of  preparation  over,  Mal- 
colm was  talking  to  reassure  his  comrade,  think- 
ing the  minister  was  perhaps  a  little  in  dread  of 
the  life  that  was  new  to  him — the  blizzard  phase 
of  it. 

At  that  instant  the  hound  leader  sprang  to  his 
feet,  bristles  erect,  and  howled. 

"Down,  Wallace;  down,  you  brute!"  com- 
manded Cameron,  for  the  dog's  rush  had  sent  the 
blizzard  swirling  under  their  cover. 

A  faint  cry  smote  on  their  ears. 

"  It's  the  storm,"  said  the  minister. 

Malcolm  pointed  at  the  hound  for  answer. 

"  Minister,  it's  a  body  lost!  "  he  exclaimed  the 
next  instant,  and,  plunging  forward,  he  went  reel- 

30 


They  struggled  and  panted  ...  in  the  swirHng  storm. 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ing  into  the  tossing  waves  of  snow  that  were  like 
angry  waters. 

"  Bruce !  "  came  his  voice  almost  at  once,  and 
in  the  gale  it  sounded  a  mile  away. 

The  minister  struggled  out  to  where  the  other 
tugged  at  something  in  the  white  sea.  They  were 
not  twenty  yards  from  their  camp,  but  it  was  a 
bitter  fight  to  win  back  with  the  man  they  had 
salvaged.  The  two  giants  were  as  children  in  the 
arms  of  the  whirlwind;  its  breath  was  a  drug — it 
smothered  their  senses;  the  driven  snow  was  like 
shot,  it  lashed  their  eyelids  closed;  they  waded 
through  huge  billows  that  swept  them  back  like  a 
receding  tide;  demoniac  voices  screamed  at  them 
from  the  tortured  pines.  Clutched  in  their 
numbed  fingers  was  a  swaying  something  that 
might  have  been  a  rag-doll  but  for  its  weight. 
At  fitful  intervals  red  tongues  from  their  fire  licked 
at  the  swirling  snow  and  beaconed  the  haven  they 
battled  for.  At  last  they  won  to  the  shelter  of 
their  barricade,  and  Bruce  piled  faggots  on  the 
fire. 

Into  the  place  that  was  a  nest  of  dogs,  and  rab- 
bit-robes, deep,  in  a  white  fleece,  they  hauled  the 
one  that  had  come  up  out  of  nowhere. 

"  An  Indian  I  "  said  Bruce,  as  the  flames  lighted 
up  the  man's  face. 

"  Two  of  them !  "  cried  Malcolm,  as  for  the 
31 


The  Blood  Lilies 

first  time  he  saw  that  a  small  figure  was  clasped 
in  the  arms  of  the  helpless  derelict.  "  My  God, 
It's  Wolf  Runner  and  the  cub!  "  he  ejaculated. 

The  black-beaded  pupils  set  like  points  of  jet 
In  the  red-and-yellow-streaked  eyes  of  the  Indian 
glinted  evilly;  the  clutch  of  the  blizzard  that  had 
all  but  choked  him  had  been  taken  from  his  throat, 
and  his  life,  almost  gone  out,  was  slowly  ebbing 
back. 

"  Out  with  the  dog!  "  panted  the  young  Scot. 

A  strong  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm,  and  a  pair 
of  hps  at  his  ear  said  solemnly,  though  the  wind 
whipped  the  tones  Into  gasps :  "  You're  a  Scotch- 
man— and  a  Christian.  We're  all  In  the  hands  of 
the  Lord.  You  couldna  ask  for  His  help  with 
murder  In  your  soul." 

The  blizzard  took  up  the  last  words,  and 
shrieked  off  into  the  pines  with  a  ghostly  chuckle. 
It  sounded  so  to  Malcolm,  suddenly  stricken 
with  the  knowledge  of  what  his  act  would  have 
been. 

Then  the  lips  came  close  to  his  ear  again,  and 
said:  *'  He's  thin-clad;  he's  starved  with  the  cold 
— I'm  feared  the  bairn's  dead — haul  them  in  be- 
tween us." 

Without  a  word  of  remonstrance  Malcolm 
allowed  the  minister — even  helped  him — to  pull 
the  Indian  against  his  back. 

32 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Then  the  three  men,  minister,  the  evil  red- 
skin against  whose  breast  was  Mas-ki-sis,  and  the 
betrothed  of  Franchette,  lay  close  huddled  with 
the  four  hounds,  and  fought  in  silence  a  many- 
houred  battle  for  their  lives. 

For  a  time  Bruce  kept  wood  on  the  fire,  just 
with  a  sweep  of  his  long  arm ;  but  at  last  the  storm 
smothered  the  blaze,  and  they  lay  silent,  as  men 
who  sleep  or  are  dead. 

Sometimes  through  the  hours  of  night  the  Bruce 
stretched  his  big  hand  across  in  silent  query;  each 
time  it  was  clasped  by  Malcolm  in  assurance. 
Once  the  Indian  tapped  Bruce's  arm,  and  in  his 
fingers  was  a  caress  of  thankfulness. 

The  day  came,  just  a  gray  shadow;  the  storm 
almost  blotted  the  light  into  darkness.  The  snow 
was  drifted  deep  over  their  covering,  and  the  bar- 
ricade of  sled  and  brush  had  grown  into  a  great 
mound.  It  was  best  to  lie  still.  By  and  by  if 
hunger  gnawed  fierce  they  could  perhaps  eat  of  the 
raw  bacon. 

Toward  night  the  blizzard  went  away  from 
them  like  a  beaten  enemy.  It  did  not  cease  grad- 
ually, it  did  not  grow  less,  it  went  away;  and 
calm,  that  had  been  not,  was  everywhere. 

In  the  west,  low  to  the  south,  just  glinting  the 
tree-tops,  the  sun  smiled  a  cold,  wan  good-night, 
and  the  three  men  rose  up  out  of  the  snow-cavern 

33 


The  Blood  Lilies 

and  looked  at  each  other  in  the  evening  light  of 
reprieve  —  Minister,  Indian,  and  Lover.  And 
Mas-ki-sis,  warmed  back  to  life,  sat  crouched  like 
a  young  bird  in  the  nest  that  had  been  their 
salvation. 


34 


CHAPTER   III 

While  the  Kirk  had  shivered  in  the  fierce  blast, 
the  trusted  of  Rome  had  rested  warm  and  safe  at 
Metis  Mission — saved  by  a  miracle,  otherwise  a 
game  of  chess. 

When  the  fat  priest  at  St.  Ambrose  clasped 
Father  Lemolne  In  his  glad  arms  he  smiled  in  con- 
tent. The  new  move !  Surely  he  would  vanquish 
his  old  enemy  at  the  board  of  little  squares  with 
the  new  attack. 

And  when  Joseph  said  that  they  would  sup  and 
hasten  forward  to  cover  a  few  leagues  before  the 
night  camp,  the  good  priest  fought  against  it. 

"  But  the  little  matter  of  Fort  Donald,"  Father 
Lemolne  pleaded. 

"  Bah !  "  retorted  Father  Le  Fevre;  "  a  badger- 
haired  Scot !  What  mattered  which  way  of  faith 
he  followed." 

"  But  there  would  be  the  saving  of  many  souls," 
Father  Lemolne  interposed.  The  Gourelots  were 
people  of  large  families;  and  as  for  the  Scots,  they 
filled  the  land  with  their  offsprings.  There  would 
surely  be  many  souls  for  the  saving,  sobelt  they 

35 


The  Blood  Lilies 

were  brought  up  in  the  true  Church.  Yes,  they 
would  go  forward;  but,  as  compromise,  just  one 
little  game  of  chess  would  Father  Lemoine  grant. 

And  as  the  king,  and  queen,  and  pawns  claimed 
the  priestly  fingers,  so  the  eager  combat  claimed 
their  godly  minds,  until  the  voice  of  Joseph  took 
them  rudely  from  their  paradise. 

"  She  come,  she  come !  "  he  was  saying  at  the 
open  door.  "  Look  you  here,  good  Father,  is  it 
not  a  true  blizzard?  '* 

And  when  it  had  grown  to  a  full  force.  Father 
Le  Fevre  said:  "  My  little  game  was  the  will 
of  God.  A  mile  on  the  trail  and  you  had  per- 
ished." 

Many  times  Joe  Descoigne  peered  forth  into  the 
darkness,  and  in  his  heart  was  an  unholy  thought 
that  his  rival  boiled  at  the  bottom  of  the  Mah-chee 
tepee,  or  lay  cold  in  icy  death  in  the  fierce  blizzard 
that  surely  no  man  could  withstand. 

Once,  and  it  was  growing  late.  Father  Lemoine, 
speaking,  perhaps  to  the  prelate,  or  perhaps  it  was 
to  Joseph,  said :  "  We  have  been  saved  from  death. 
I  will  go  and  pray  and  ask  the  Holy  Mother  that 
our  poor  friends  may  be  saved  too.  To  die  out 
there  in  the  cold  is  terrible.  They  are  not  of  our 
faith,  but  they  are  brothers,  because  they  have 
souls." 

And  the  little  priest,  who  had  hastened  to  the 

36 


The  Blood   Lilies 

call  of  his  Church,  knelt  and  prayed  for  the  lives 
of  the  two  men  against  whom  he  strove. 

And  at  Fort  Donald,  Franchette  besought  of 
the  Virgin  the  life  of  her  lover;  and  big  Cameron 
walked  the  floor  of  his  shack  as  it  trembled  in  the 
wind^s  grasp,  and  all  night  the  great  gaunt  eyes 
closed  not  at  all. 


37 


CHAPTER    IV 

Near  to  Vermilion  the  three  men  whose  lives 
had  been  left  with  them  stood  looking  at  each 
other  in  silence. 

The  minister  was  wondering  whether  the  hate 
had  softened  in  the  heart  of  Malcolm.  It  was  the 
young  Scot  who  spoke  first. 

"  Will  ye  try  for  Vermilion  to-night,  Minis- 
ter? There's  not  a  sup  of  grub  for  man  or  beast 
but  the  bacon ;  it  Is  all  buried  beyond  finding  In  the 
snow." 

The  hounds  were  In  a  pitiable  condition;  the 
cold  had  almost  frozen  them  to  death. 

Malcolm  took  no  notice  of  the  Indian.  The 
evidence  of  the  wrath  of  God  In  the  storm,  and 
His  goodness  in  sparing  their  lives,  had  given  a 
solemn  check  to  his  passion.  It  had  stayed  his 
hand,  but  there  was  no  forgiveness  in  his  thoughts. 
The  Indian  could  go  his  way  like  some  wild  animal 
he  spared  out  of  compassion. 

He  and  the  Bruce  dug  the  sled  from  Its  moun- 
tain of  snow,  harnessed  the  dogs,  gathered  their 
robes,  and  were  ready  to  start. 

38 


The   Blood   Lilies 

"  What  of  the  wee  nichie,  Malcolm?  ''  queried 
Bruce. 

"  He  has  his  father,"  answered  Cameron. 

"  Ay,  but  I  doubt  they'll  make  Vermilion.  We 
must  take  the  lad,  Malcolm." 

"  The  dogs  are  done  for,"  objected  Cameron. 

"  We  must  take  the  bairn  if  I  have  to  carry 
him,"  declared  Bruce,  firmly. 

"  Well,  well;  put  him  on  the  sled,"  cried  Mal- 
colm, giving  in.  "  You're  right.  Minister;  I'm  un- 
reasonin'  mad,  that's  all." 

Wolf  Runner  had  stood  waiting  while  the  two 
white  men  discussed  something  in  their  unknown 
tongue.  When  Mas-ki-sis  was  lifted  to  the  cariole 
by  Bruce,  and  the  hounds  reluctantly,  weakly, 
stretched  to  the  collars,  the  Indian,  on  his  snow- 
shoes,  swung  in  ahead  of  them,  and  set  his  face 
toward  Vermilion.  Bruce  nodded  to  Malcolm  in 
commendation.  "  Heed  that,  lad;  the  Indian 
breaks  the  trail  for  the  dogs.  Man !  but  the  snow 
is  deep !  " 

Their  progress  was  slow.  Once  Malcolm  went 
forward,  and,  touching  Wolf  Runner  on  the  shoul- 
der, pointed  him  to  go  back — he  would  break  the 
trail.  The  Indian  shook  his  head  and  hastened 
forward. 

"  Let  him  go,"  cried  Bruce.  ''  You'll  need  all 
39 


The  Blood  Lilies 

your  strength,  happen  the  others  camped  at  Metis 
Mission." 

"  And  if  they  didn't,"  retorted  Malcolm,  "  Fm 
thinkin'  there's  no  hurry." 

"  When  we  were  safe  ourselves  last  night  I  just 
asked  the  Lord  the  favor  of  their  saving.  They're 
of  Rome,  but  they're  humans — fellow-beings,"  said 
the  minister,  simply. 

With  a  good  trail  they  should  have  fetched  Ver- 
milion in  three  hours.  Now  it  was  midnight  when 
they  came  to  the  welcome  shelter  of  Wolf  Run- 
ner's buffalo-hide  wigwam. 

As  they  neared  it,  coming  wearily,  slowly  up 
out  of  the  forest  like  a  shadowy  wolf-pack,  the 
wailing  death-song  of  a  Cree  woman  vibrated  the 
night  air  that  was  as  still  as  though  the  tempest 
had  put  death  upon  the  earth.  It  was  Wolf  Run- 
ner's squaw  wailing  because  she  thought  him  dead, 
and  because  Mas-ki-sis  was  not. 

A  dart  of  remorse  shot  through  Cameron — he 
might  have  been  the  cause  of  that  lament. 

The  Indian  heard  it,  and,  drawing  himself  up, 
his  shrill  voice  pitched  forward  over  the  trail  in 
the  long  "  Hi-yi-yi-yi-i-i-i !  "  victory  cry  of  the 
Crees.  Then  he  drooped  his  shoulders  low  again, 
and,  making  wide  the  trail  with  his  snow-shoes, 
struggled  on  in  front  of  Wallace  the  hound. 

For  answer  a  slit  of  bright  light  cut  the  dark- 
40 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ness  as  the  flap  of  a  tepee,  which  had  lain  hidden 
in  the  gloom,  was  thrown  back  and  a  head  was 
thrust  through.  And  presently,  when  Wolf  Run- 
ner in  the  flesh  stood  before  his  Cree  wife,  and 
she  knew  it  was  not  the  spirit  call,  her  stolid  face 
was  reached  from  its  habitual  ugliness  into  a  face 
of  joy  that  was  almost  beautiful. 

Then  Mas-ki-sis  was  lifted  from  the  carlole  by 
the  mother  arms,  and  held  to  a  breast  against 
which  a  heart  thumped  like  a  trip-hammer  because 
of  its  fierce  joy. 

"  Rest  you  in  the  tepee,"  said  Malcolm  to  Bruce; 
"  rU  sleep  wi*  the  dogs,  for  they're  in  a  bad 
way.*' 

The  minister  understood  the  Scot's  unexpressed 
objection  to  sleeping  in  his  enemy's  house,  and  he 
said:  "  Lad,  think  of  what's  ahead  of  you.  Would 
you  let  the  Church  of  Rome  triumph — would  you 
throw  away  a  chance  of  winning  Franchette?  You 
could  stand  the  cold,  man,  I  know  that,  but  you've 
had  a  hard  time,  an'  the  blast  may  be  even  now  in 
your  lungs.  It  won't  do — it  willna  do,"  contin- 
ued the  Bruce,  intensity  of  feeling  carrying  him  to 
his  broader  mother-tongue.  "  You've  conquered 
over  the  heathen  with  kindness  more  than  if  you 
had  slain  him ;  his  heart  now  is  that  sore,  he  doesn't 
know  what  to  do  to  make  up  for  it.  Perhaps  he'll 
even  think  you're  afraid,  man,"  he  suggested,  with 

41 


The  Blood  Lilies 

deep  cunning,  thinking  to  lash  his  comrade  into 
good  sense  by  an  appeal  to  his  vanity. 

"  I'm  not  that,"  declared  Malcolm. 

In  the  end  the  minister  prevailed. 

Cameron  slept  like  a  tired  animal  beside  the 
Bruce,  their  feet  to  the  fire,  and  their  bodies 
warmed  by  the  hot  rabbit  pot-soup  that  the  squaw 
of  Wolf  Runner  had  prepared  with  eager  hands. 
And  in  her  heart  was  a  song  of  gratitude  that 
crooned  softly  from  her  lips. 

For  an  hour  the  Indian  sat,  chin  to  knee,  staring 
at  the  white  men  who  had  saved  him,  and  nurs- 
ing the  fire  with  little  faggots  that  it  died  not  nor 
grew  too  hot.  Then  he  slept  as  he  crouched,  lit- 
tle dog-naps,  waking  every  hour  to  replenish  the 
camp-fire.  At  last  he  opened  the  tepee  flap  and 
looked  into  the  sky  where  the  dipper  swung  around 
the  North  Star  and  marked  off  the  flitting  hours 
for  the  red  man.  Then  he  touched  Bruce  lightly 
on  the  shoulder,  and,  as  the  latter  opened  his  eyes, 
held  up  five  fingers.  They  had  slept  five  hours, 
and  Wolf  Runner  would  have  them  start.  There 
was  another  pot  of  generous  rabbit-stew  for  their 
going. 

As  they  made  ready  for  the  start,  the  Indian  was 
packing  in  his  blanket  dried  moose-meat  and  a 
brick  of  pemmican,  as  though  he,  too,  was  for  a 
journey.    Even  as  they  tied  their  snow-shoes,  Wolf 

42 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Runner  tied  his;  and  when  the  dogs  were  har- 
nessed, he  made  to  take  his  place  In  their  lead. 

*'  Where's  he  going?  "  asked  Malcolm  roughly 
of  Bruce. 

"  He  faces  the  trail  to  Fort  Donald,"  replied 
the  minister. 

"  Drive  him  back,  you,"  cried  Malcolm;  "my 
hands  still  itch  to  be  at  his  throat." 

The  Bruce  called  Wolf  Runner,  and  as  the 
Indian  came  back  he  said  In  Cree :  "  Sit  you  here 
in  your  tepee,  O  Indian;  we  know  the  trail." 

Then  the  Indian  spoke. 

"  When  Wolf  Runner  was  coming  back  from 
the  chase  of  Mooswa,  and  WIe-sah-ke-chack,  who 
lives  there  where  the  cold  light  is  " — he  pointed 
with  upraised  hand  to  where  the  Northern  Lights 
were  flashing  fantastic  scrolls  of  ghost  light  far 
toward  the  pole — "  when  Wie-sah-ke-chack  had 
breathed  upon  Wolf  Runner  and  Mas-ki-sis  the 
death-wind,  did  not  your  camp-fire  beckon?  And 
even  as  my  strength  went  out,  did  not  this  man 
for  whom  I  had  done  evil  come  and  take  me  into 
the  warmth?  Would  Mi-yah-tis,  who  sits  in 
Wolf  Runner's  tepee,be  not  now  singing  the  death- 
song  but  for  the  paleface?  Do  you  not  trail 
against  Joe  the  Carcajou,  and  is  not  the  trail  deep, 
and  are  not  the  dogs  tired,  and  will  not  your 
strength  go  out  in  making  the  trail  ?    Even  before 

43 


The  Blood  Lilies 

you  come  to  the  Company's  fort  the  dogs  will  fail 
— then  Wolf  Runner  will  become  a  dog — Wolf 
Runner  will  draw  the  sled  even  as  a  dog." 

The  Indian,  man  of  silence,  had  spoken  at  great 
length,  and  in  his  voice  was  truth. 

Bruce  spoke  not,  but  pointing  to  their  way, 
nodded  to  Wolf  Runner. 

And  once  again  the  three  men  took  up  the  trail 
for  Fort  Donald. 


44 


CHAPTER   V 

Sometimes  Malcolm  took  the  lead  from  Wolf 
Runner.  When  Bruce  made  to  go  forward  Cam- 
eron would  always  stop  him,  saying:  "Stay  you 
behind,  Minister.  I'm  thinkin'  you'll  have  to  run 
for  it  at  the  last.  We'll  just  go  as  far  as  we  can, 
an'  then  it's  you  to  make  good  for  the  Kirk." 

That  day,  and  for  two  more,  through  poplar 
bluff  and  jack-pine  and  spruce  and  open  prairie 
they  fought  the  long  length  of  the  tortuous  wind- 
ing trail,  with  its  depth  of  crustless  snow  that  half 
engulfed  the  dogs.  Silently,  wearied  beyond 
speech,  they  pressed  forward  hour  after  hour. 
The  third  night  they  travelled  late,  hoping  to  reach 
a  small  shack  that  stood  where  their  own  trail 
forked  from  the  way  to  Metis  Mission,  twenty 
miles  from  Fort  Donald;  but  it  was  beyond  their 
endurance.  An  hour  short  of  its  shelter  man  and 
dog  were  done,  and  they  camped  in  the  pines. 

In  the  morning,  wearily  plodding,  they  came  to 
the  shack  at  daybreak. 

A  fresh-cut  trough  in  the  snow  showed  where 
the  plump  weight  of  the  little  priest  had  left  a 
mark  of  derision  for  them. 

45 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Malcolm  stood  like  a  man  petrified.  '*  Minis- 
ter! "  he  ejaculated,  "  there  goes  the  trail  of  the 
ungodly  Romans!  " 

His  voice  stopped  the  dogs,  and  they  crouched 
in  the  snow,  shivering  with  fatigue.  Wolf  Run- 
ner darted  into  the  shack,  raked  the  fire-ashes,  and 
in  a  second  was  out  again.  The  Indian  pointed  to 
the  second  joint  of  his  forefinger. 

"  They  are  gone  half  an  hour,"  said  Bruce. 
"  Come,  lad,  perk  up,  we'll  do  them  yet." 

Already  Wolf  Runner  was  tugging  at  the 
hounds. 

"  Up,  Wallace !  up,  me  bucks !  "  cried  Malcolm, 
and  the  three  pressed  forward  again. 

As  they  travelled,  the  Indian  pointed  at  the 
heart-shaped  snow-shoe  track  that  was  always 
ahead  of  them. 

"  Somebody  breaks  the  trail  for  Descoigne's 
dogs,"  commented  Malcolm. 

"  And  they  all  break  the  trail  for  us,"  said  the 
minister,  in  a  cheering  voice.  "  We'll  beat  them 
out,  lad." 

In  less  than  a  mile  one  of  the  dogs  keeled  over 
in  his  harness  and  lay  in  the  snow,  done  to  death 
with  the  strain  of  storm  and  travel. 

Without  a  word  Wolf  Runner  slipped  Wallace 
back  into  the  collar  he  had  stripped  from  the  fallen 

46 


The  Blood  Lilies 

hound,  and,  putting  the  leader's  harness  on  his  own 
shoulder,  strode  on. 

The  two  Scotchmen  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  each  saw  something  besides  weariness. 

Two  hours,  and  still  no  sight  of  Joseph  and 
the  little  priest.  As  they  topped  a  hill,  and  it  was 
a  steep  climb,  another  dog  fell,  and  lay  with  his 
tongue  blue  and  froth-covered  on  the  snow. 

The  Bruce  jumped  forward,  but  Malcolm  was 
before  him.  "Stay  you  back.  Minister!  You'll 
be  needing  your  shanks  for  the  wee  bit  at  the  end 
perhaps." 

The  fallen  dog  was  loosed,  and  then,  almost 
touching  each  other,  harnessed  together  like  train- 
dogs,  the  Indian  and  the  Scot  gave  lead  to  the 
hounds. 

Presently  Wolf  Runner  held  aloft  his  left  hand 
with  the  thumb  at  the  first  joint  of  the  forefinger. 

"  We're  gaining,  lad,"  cried  Bruce.  "  He  says 
they're  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ahead.  Hurrah 
for  the  Kirk!" 

"  They  must  have  fresh  huskies,"  panted  Mal- 
colm. "  They  run  straight;  there's  never  a  mark 
in  the  snow  of  their  sitting." 

The  Indian  seemed  a  man  of  iron,  tireless,  all- 
silent;  even  the  lover  was  not  more  eager  in  his 
travel — even  the  Church  not  more  constant  in  its 
desire. 

47 


The  Blood  Lilies 

At  a  cross-trail  Malcolm  cried  out  in  bitterness. 
"  Six  miles  to  the  fort,  and  we're  not  caught  up 
yet.    I'm  afraid,  man,  I'm  afraid." 

"Ay,  lad  I  what's  that?"  cried  Bruce,  eagerly, 
the  next  instant,  pointing  to  a  hill  less  than  half  a 
mile  ahead. 

"  Hurrah!  it's — it  is,  it  is,  it's  the  priest,"  cried 
Cameron,  exultantly;  and  the  eager  push  of  his 
broad  chest  as  he  dashed  forward  in  his  joy  threw 
the  tired  hounds  on  their  heads  in  the  snow. 

''  Better  let  the  train  go,"  said  Bruce,  "  and  to 
our  shanks  for  it." 

"  No,"  objected  Malcolm,  "  we  travel  as  fast 
this  way.  But  do  you  throw  the  blankets  and  all 
from  the  sled,  and  bide  on  it  yourself,  and  rest  a 
bit  for  the  grand  run  when  we've  sighted  the  old 
fort." 

"  I'm  not  needing  it,"  objected  the  Bruce;  "  I'm 
fresh,  man,  I'm  fresh." 

The  priestly  party  sighted  them,  and  the  race 
became  a  race  indeed.  Joseph's  dogs,  fresher, 
evened  up  the  determination  of  the  Scots. 

At  Fort  Donald  that  time,  as  it  had  been  for 
three  days.  Captain  Ball  sat  at  a  lookout  window 
in  the  fort,  marine-glass  in  hand,  watching  the 
trail  that  wound  to  Buffalo  Neck.  Many  times  he 
had  focussed  where  it  dipped  over  a  hill  a  mile 

48 


The  Blood  Lilies 

away,  but  this  time  it  was  just  as  Descoigne  and 
the  little  priest  reached  the  summit. 

The  captain  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  cry.  As 
he  looked,  suddenly  he  gave  a  groan  of  dismay;  it 
was  the  Catholic  outfit.  What !  there  was  another 
speck  of  dark  on  the  white  snow  now. 

**  Hivins !  it's  Malcolm — losin'  be  a  hundred 
yards!"  Ball  wailed  as  he  fairly  rolled  down  the 
stairs.  His  wild  war-cry  brought  Sandy  and 
Gourelot  and  everybody  else  that  was  not  dead  to 
the  fort  square. 

The  place  was  alive,  and  so  was  Captain  Ball — 
very  much.  While  the  others  swarmed  as  bees 
that  were  drunk  on  new  honey,  his  quick  wit  car- 
ried him  into  a  nimble  plan. 

"  Lomond !  Lomond !  "  he  called,  to  a  gaunt 
hound  that  trailed  at  Sandy's  heels,  and  whistled 
the  shrill  note  that  Cameron  used  for  his  dogs. 
"  They're  dead  beat,"  he  whispered  to  Sandy,  as 
he  jerked  the  leather  belt  from  his  waist;  then, 
fastening  It  In  the  collar  of  Lomond,  he  fled  down 
the  trail  with  wondrous  speed. 

Sandy,  understanding,  held  the  others  in  gar- 
rulous talk,  for  they  had  not  seen  what  Ball  had 
seen  through  the  long-reaching  eye  of  his  glass. 

Descoigne  was  still  In  the  lead,  his  dogs  run- 
ning strong  and  fresh,  for  they  were  now  on  a 
beaten  trail. 

49 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Ball  knew  not  of  Wolf  Runner.  He  had  an 
idea  that  the  strong,  fresh  hound  slipped  quick  into 
the  train  of  Malcolm  might  turn  the  tide.  Per- 
haps even  Malcolm  and  the  minister  were  too 
fagged  to  run  a  yard. 

It  was  less  than  half  a  mile  down  the  trail  that 
he  met  the  French  party.  As  he  turned  out  to 
pass,  Joseph,  in  vindictiveness,  struck  at  the  hound 
with  his  heavy  dog-whip.  In  an  instant  Lomond 
was  upon  him  in  retaliation. 

The  wolf-like  huskies,  roused  by  the  hound's 
rush,  tumbled  over  each  other  in  an  attack  on  the 
strange  dog.  Not  even  the  huskies  would  have 
saved  Descoigne  from  the  other's  fangs  if  Ball 
had  not  thrown  himself  upon  the  dog. 

The  melee  of  husky  and  hound  and  Frenchman 
were  still  an  entanglement  when  Malcolm  and 
Bruce  came  to  its  troubled  edge. 

"  It's  the  favor  of  God!  "  cried  Malcolm;  "  run 
for  it,  man !  run  for  it.  Minister !  " 

Bruce  stripped  with  eager  fingers  the  snow- 
shoes  from  his  moccasined  feet,  and  with  long 
stride  carried  the  Influence  of  the  Kirk  into  Fort 
Donald. 

With  a  cry  of  dismay  the  little  priest  rolled 
from  his  sled,  and  essayed  to  follow,  but  his  short 
fat  legs  were  no  match  for  the  long  shanks  of  the 
Hielander. 

50 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  populace  swarmed  down  the  trail  as  the 
trains  came  into  view,  and  Sandy,  his  office  of  de- 
tention gone,  was  of  their  number. 

At  sight  of  the  minister  he  yelled :  "  The  Bruce ! 
the  Bruce !  Glory  to  God  I  Come  awa',  mon,  to 
the  Gourelot  household." 

Into  the  factor's  presence  the  two  Hielanders 
thrust  themselves,  and  the  Kirk  had  won  beyond 
doubt. 


51 


CHAPTER   VI 

Factor  Gourelot  had  a  philosophy,  suave, 
debonair;  it  was  like  the  mercury  in  a  barometer 
which  drives  the  indicator  up  in  the  midst  of  a 
fierce  storm.  So  he  beamed  cheerfully  upon  Bruce, 
the  winner,  who  was  a  Protestant. 

'*  M'sieu  le  Cure,  I  compleement  you.  I  haf 
lost,  you  haf  won;  I  am  sad,  see?  ''  and  his  jocund 
countenance  beamed  a  falsification  to  his  state- 
ment. 

"  Mon,  ye're  a  good  loser.  Factor,"  declared 
Sandy  Cameron,  admiringly. 

"  Mon  Dieu  1  Is  not  Mamselle  Franchette 
made  happy  ?  *'  questioned  Gourelot,  deprecat- 
ingly. 

Their  compliments  were  cut  short  by  turmoil 
at  the  door.  The  little  priest,  Malcolm,  Wolf 
Runner,  Descoigne — everybody,  even  the  dogs, 
had  come — a  vociferous  throng,  like  the  advance 
guard  of  a  rabble  corps.  Factor  Gourelot  darted 
forward. 

"  Pere  Lemoine !  Enter,  good  Father — wel- 
come ! '' 

"  O  Monsieur  Gourelot,  I  am  too  fat,"  puffed 
52 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  little  priest.     "  I  am  a  duck;  I  am  le  gros 
bear  at  berry-time." 

"  Come,  come,  Descoigne,"  cried  Gourelot,  ea- 
gerly, "  you  haf  mak'  un  gran'  race.  Perhaps  ze 
good  father  haf  not  beseech  ze  Church  strong 
enough." 

Descoigne  was  sullen,  still  smarting  from  his  de- 
feat— even  the  rake  of  Lomond's  teeth  in  his 
shoulder. 

*'  It  was  Ic  chien  du  diable  that  lose  us  ever'- 
t'ing." 

"  Nevair  mind,  nevair  mind,"  expostulated 
Gourelot.  "  M'sieu  Sandy  haf  beaten  Factor 
Gourelot — ha,  ha,  ha!  In  Fort  Donald  we  will 
nevair  hear  ze  end  of  it.  Come,  Malcolm,  stan' 
here;  now  we  will  see.  Pardon  me,  Mes- 
sieurs  " 

Gourelot  darted  to  an  inner  room,  and  returned 
almost  at  once  with  Franchette  on  his  arm. 

Ah,  it  was  good  to  see  how  blood  would  tell, 
how  breeding  would  out.  The  factor's  rotund 
figure  took  on  inches  of  courtly  stature  as  he  placed 
the  shrinking  girl's  hand  in  the  big  palm  of 
Sandy's  Malcolm. 

"  There,  M'sieus,"  Gourelot  cried,  "  ze  race  is 
finish;  ze  dog,  ze  storm,  ze  long  leg  of  M'sieu 
Bruce  haf  not  won;  it  Is  ze  will  of  God.  What 
say  you,  M'sieu  le  Cure?  " 

53 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  Factor,  I  can't  splk  in  judgment  on  the  will 
of  God;  but  as  you  say  true,  M'sieu  Gourelot,  you 
have  been  unfortunate,  the  struggle  has  been 
gained  by  M'sieu  Cameron,  and  we  must  be  all 
good  friends." 

The  little  priest  tapped  Franchette  playfully  on 
the  cheek  and  cried:  "  Mamselle  is  the  happy  lit- 
tle rebel."  Then  he  shrugged  his  round  shoul- 
ders till  the  big  black  cross  with  the  brass  figure 
of  Christ  clinging  to  it  twisted  fantastically,  as 
though  the  priest's  admixture  of  Jesuitical  reluct- 
ance to  credit  the  Protestant  Church  with  a  victory 
ordained  of  heaven  and  his  playful  humor  of  ad- 
monishment vibrated  it  unapprovingly. 

"  I  won  tin  skins,  Malcolm,  me  b'y,"  an  Irish 
voice  shot  into  the  more  or  less  church  atmosphere. 
**  Felix  Benoit,  ye'll  just  fork  over." 

"  I  not  pay,  me.  Captain,"  declared  Felix. 
"  You  set  ze  big  dog  for  grab  Joe,  cause  you  bet 
ten  skins." 

Descoigne  glared  at  Ball,  but  the  Irishman 
laughed  good-humoredly. 

"  Factor,  jus'  cut  ould  man  Benoit  tin  skins. 
It's  mesilf'll  take  it  in  tobacco." 

"  Come  awa',  Meenister,"  said  Sandy;  "  I'm 
thinkin'  ye're  fair  beat  wi'  the  long  run." 

Malcolm  spoke  up.  "  When — "  he  stopped, 
and  shifted  from  one  big  foot  to  the  other  as 

54 


The  Blood  Lilies 

though  his  moccasins  had  suddenly  become  sheets 
of  fire.  Franchette  drooped  her  head  until  the 
mass  of  black  hair  fell  about  her  face  like  a  veil, 
hiding  the  eyes  that  were  full  of  a  wondrous  light 
of  joy  and  happiness  and  thanks  to  the  Virgin 
Mother  that  had  brought  back  to  her  safely  the 
man  she  had  pictured  as  dead  when  the  fierce  storm 
raved  at  her  in  its  blizzard  fury. 

"  Pardon,"  cried  Gourelot.  "  To-morrow, 
frien's,  we  will  make  ze  wedding.  What  say  you, 
M'sieu  Sandy?" 

"  Tm  vera  pleased,"  responded  Cameron; 
"  Fm  thinkin'  affairs  o'  this  sort  shouldna  be 
put  off.  We'll  just  hae  a  bit  rest  the  mean- 
while." 

Then  ensconced  in  big  Sandy's  hospitable  shack, 
Bruce  had  to  live  over  again  every  foot  of  the 
trail  for  the  edification  of  Cameron.  Many 
times  Sandy  laid  down  his  pipe  with  such  ejacu- 
lations as:  "Clearly  the  will  o'  God;"  "It 
must  hae  been  fearsome  cauld;  "  "Ye  did  well 
to  mak'  camp,  mon — I  was  afeared.  If  ye  had- 
na  come  the  day,  we  were  to  start  oot,  lookin' 
for  ye." 

And  Malcolm's  mother,  Jeanie,  that  was  the 
wife  of  Sandy,  many  times  touched  her  stalwart 
son  with  little  taps  of  love  pride;  sometimes  she 
caressed  his  forehead,  and  always:  "  My  braw  lad  I 

55 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ye  deserve  a  gude  wifie.    Anyway,  ye  didna  let  the 
Papists  o'ercome  ye,  ye  braw  lad.'' 

And  as  for  Wolf  Runner,  Sandy  saw  that  he 
was  quartered  well,  with  unlimited  food  and  to- 
bacco. 


56 


CHAPTER    VII 

Joe  Descoigne,  moody,  resentful,  jealous  of 
his  rivaPs  happiness,  determined  to  have  one  more 
vicious  try  at  upsetting  the  nuptials. 

That  night  he  talked  long  and  earnestly  with 
Factor  Gourelot;  his  argument  of  persuasion  was 
that  they,  the  party  of  true  belief,  would  have  won 
had  not  that  barbarian  of  an  Irishman,  Captain 
Ball,  rushed  down  the  trail  and  deliberately  set  the 
hound  on  him  and  his  huskies.  In  Joe's  philosophy 
a  lie  was  just  as  much  to  be  used  in  controversy  as 
any  other  expression. 

Might  he  be  called  upon  to  curse  his  own  birth 
if  the  devilish  captain  had  not  set  the  hound  on 
him.  Why  should  Franchette  be  married  out  of 
her  own  belief,  out  of  the  true  Church,  to  raise  up 
children — grandchildren  of  Pere  Gourelot  they 
would  be,  too — to  be  predestined  to  hell.  And  by 
a  trick,  M'sleu  Gourelot — a  vile  heretical  trick. 

Gourelot  was  of  an  unsuspicious  mind;  he  had 
not  questioned  the  matter  when  big  Sandy  bolted 
Into  his  presence  with  the  winner,  Bruce;  but  put 
In  the  Machiavellian  light  of  Descolgne's  deduc- 

57 


The  Blood  Lilies 

tion,  "  Sacre,"  it  did  seem  hardly  fair.  He  had 
stuck  to  his  bargain,  had  attempted  no  trickery, 
and,  as  Descoigne  said,  it  must  have  been  Cameron 
who  had  put  Ball  up  to  the  hound  intervention ;  it 
was  like  the  Hielandman's  astuteness. 

"  Spik  wit'  Pere  Lemoine,  M'sieu  Gourelot," 
suggested  Descoigne.  "  De  little  father  he's  not 
t'ink  of  dese  t'ings."  Also  Joe's  name  was  not  to 
be  mentioned — Descoigne  stipulated,  begged  that. 

Gourelot  was  mercurial,  quite  French  in  his 
weathercock-like  shif tings.  Mon  Dieu  I  why  should 
he  be  outwitted  by  big  Sandy? 

He  hastened  to  consult  the  little  priest.  Father 
Lemoine  listened  quite  patiently;  it  was  part  of  his 
stock-in-trade,  patience.  A  man  of  religion  who 
was  not  patient  beyond  all  understanding  made  no 
headway  with  the  erratic  children  of  the  forest. 

Factor  Gourelot  was  even  more  impetuous  in 
his  objection  than  Descoigne  had  been — more  sin- 
cere; but  Pere  Lemoine,  smothering  the  tempta- 
tion of  a  possible  turningNof  the  tables,  answered 
quite  simply — they  were  speaking  in  French — 
*'  M'sieu  Factor,  you  cannot  do  this  thing.  I  am 
a  servant  of  the  Church;  I  do  all  things  to  save 
those  of  unbelief.  I  am  here  to  lay  down  my  life, 
if  necessary,  for  our  loved  Mother;  and  I  weep 
to  think  that  the  children  of  Franchette  are  to  be 
lo«t  because  of  a  false  belief.     But  my  Church 

58 


The  Blood  Lilies 

could  not  prosper  if  we  destroyed  the  faith  men 
have  in  one  another.  The  temptation  to  me  is 
strong,  and  the  responsibihty  less  than  it  is  with 
you,  for  I  have  not  given  my  word  as  to  anything ; 
but  you,  M'sieu  Factor,  you  have,  and  you  must 
keep  faith.  Your  great  Company  keeps  faith  with 
the  Indians  and  it  is  strong;  you  are  its  servant, 
and  if  you  break  faith  with  M'sieu  Cameron, 
everybody  will  say  the  Company  tells  lies." 

The  little  priest  sighed  wearily;  he  was  speak- 
ing not  of  his  own  liking,  but  for  the  honor  of 
Factor  Gourelot,  who  had  come  to  him  for  advice. 

"  But  the  trick  of  Captain  Ball,"  the  factor  ob- 
jected. 

"  M'sieu  the  Captain  is  not  M'sieu  Cameron. 
Also  there  was  no  trick — I  saw;  it  was  Descoigne's 
fault." 

So  Factor  Gourelot  went  away  from  the  little 
priest,  shouldering  the  load  of  the  inevitable,  and 
glad  that  the  good  father  had  solved  the  matter 
for  him. 

The  priest  watched  Gourelot  going,  his  chubby 
fingers  caressing  the  metal  Christ  that  rested  in 
the  lap  of  his  cassock.  The  father  had  a  poetic 
little  fancy  of  his  own  that  sustained  him  In  many 
a  crisis.  When  the  crucified  figure  felt  hot  against 
his  hand,  burned  his  fingers,  he  knew  that  he  had 
acted  wrongly ;  when  his  course  of  action  had  been 

59 


The  Blood  Lilies 

right,  dictated  of  the  Holy  Mother,  the  image  of 
the  Son  comforted  his  fingers,  fevered  of  misgiv- 
ing, with  a  cool  response.  It  was  a  fanciful  ma- 
terial embodiment  of  conscience.  Now,  as  the 
factor  faded  from  sight,  he  felt  the  crucifix  sweet 
to  his  touch;  there  was  no  hot  sting  of  reproach; 
just  a  calm,  holy  consolation. 

The  priest  groaned  inwardly  when  the  cere- 
mony was  performed  by  Minister  Bruce.  Accord- 
ing to  his  tenets,  it  was  a  meaningless  observance. 
Outside  the  pale  of  the  true  Church,  it  could  pos- 
sibly have  no  recognition  by  the  higher  tribunal. 
A  lamb  from  his  flock  had  been  lost — taken  by 
the  wolves  of  unbelief.  It  was  not  a  narrow 
prejudice;  it  was  not  the  anger  of  defeat;  it  was 
belief,  and  he  sighed  in  compassion.  But  the 
priest  was  brave.  In  the  hour  of  distress  he  had 
prayed  for  the  others,  who  were  humans;  a  com- 
pact had  been  made,  and  to  object  would  breed 
dissension  and  trouble  and  enmity.  Was  it  the  will 
of  God,  he  even  questioned  to  himself  in  silence. 
And  by  such  a  little  he  had  lost.  It  was  a  sore 
trial  to  Father  Lemoine;  surely  there  would  be 
many  children — of  a  certainty  there  would  be,  and 
all  Protestants,  all  heretics.  When  had  such  a 
disaster  come  to  his  diocese?  Indeed,  he  should 
do  penance  for  his  obesity  that  had  caused  the  dis- 
aster.   The  barbaric  physical  fitness  of  the  heretic 

60 


The  Blood  Lilies 

minister  had  over-reached  all  his  zeal,  his  plethora 
of  good  dogs,  his  perfection  of  theological  acumen; 
it  was  like  a  triumph  of  matter  over  mind — a  mind 
schooled  and  sustained  by  the  true  religion. 

It  must  be  said  that  Factor  Gourelot  had  no  such 
vibrant  emotions.  Even  the  union  might  tide  over 
many  little  difficulties  which  arose  because  of  the 
varied  nationalities  and  divergent  theology  which 
existed  in  Fort  Donald. 

Big  Sandy  was  not  so  optimistic.  He  had  a 
talk  with  Malcolm  after  the  ceremony. 

"  A  lass  may  gang  frae  her  mither  and  fayther 
to  the  arms  o'  her  laddie,  I  ken  that;  but  I'm  teUin' 
ye,  Malcolm — I'm  sayin',  the  Church  o'  Rome  is 
stronger  nor  ony  parent.  Ye  mak'  yer  ain  bed,  lad, 
an'  ye  maun  lie  on  it;  but  I'm  thinkin'  ye'd  best 
keep  a  strong  hand  o'er  Franchette,  an'  dinna  let 
them  run  back  an'  forth  too  much.  The  Frenchies 
are  fond  o'  blatherin',  an'  speerin'  the  ways  o'  a 
hoosehold.  Gie  them  tae  understan'  ye're  a  Cam- 
eron, an'  laird  in  yer  ain  castle." 

From  time  to  time  the  father  had  other  sage 
bits  of  advice;  but  he  might  as  well  have  talked  to 
the  crackling  ice  in  the  river,  for  Malcolm  was 
most  abominably  in  love,  and  the  black  eyes  of 
Franchette  were  the  only  thing  to  be  considered. 


6i 


CHAPTER    VIII 

The  festivities  of  the  week  were  of  undoubted 
fervor. 

Father  Lemoine  had  journeyed  away  from  Fort 
Donald.  The  breed  who  had  broken  the  trail  from 
Metis  Mission  for  his  dogs  took  them  back,  and 
Descoigne's  dogs  would  be  sent  on  to  Fort  Don- 
ald at  the  first  chance. 

Usually  the  advent  of  the  little  father,  even 
his  stay  in  the  post,  would  have  been  most  welcome 
to  all;  but  under  the  peculiar  circumstances,  and 
sad  to  relate,  there  was  no  one  so  disinterested  as 
to  regret  his  going. 

"  Tm  vera  glad,  Malcolm,"  Sandy  said,  "  vera 
glad  indeed.  Ye'U  hae  a  better  chance,  mon,  tae 
wean  the  lassie  a  bit." 

Factor  Gourelot  felt  somehow  a  reproach  in  the 
priest's  presence.  The  factor  had  been  the  unfort- 
unate instrument  of  casting  a  defeat  in  the  way 
of  the  Church. 

As  for  the  post  dwellers.  Catholic  and  all,  they 
were  possessed  of  a  huge  desire  to  become  ex- 

62 


The  Blood  Lilies 

hilarated  with  liquor  of  a  questionable  quality. 
Even  then  the  spirit  was  working  itself  up  to  a  fine 
state  of  excitement  in  a  couple  of  well-corked  kegs 
which  lay  hidden  in  the  shack  of  Felix  Benoit,  the 
half-breed. 

He  was  a  distiller  of  high  repute;  for  did  he 
not  take  the  hops  and  barley  and  brown  sugar  and 
in  the  course  of  time  produce  from  his  stout  kegs  a 
fermentation  which  lifted  the  roof  from  the  head 
of  its  imbiber?  In  a  square  hole  under  the  floor 
of  his  shack  Benoit  had  the  kegged  essence  of 
jubilation,  and  it  had  come  to  its  utmost  point  of 
high  pressure,  to  the  narrowest  margin  separating 
it  from  spontaneous  combustion. 

With  the  mild  blue  eyes  of  the  good  father  upon 
them,  the  dwellers  who  knew  of  this  godless  vin- 
tage were  steeped  in  the  throes  of  apprehensive 
terror. 

The  fat  little  priest  would  prove  a  metaphorical 
skeleton  at  the  marriage-feast.  No  adherent  of 
the  Church  could  hope  to  become  drunken  with 
impunity.  So,  when  Father  Lemoine,  tortured  by 
the  ever-present  vision  of  defeat,  decided  that  he 
must  return  at  once  to  his  own  flock  at  St.  Ambrose, 
a  mighty  shout  of  relief  went  up,  figuratively. 
The  solicitude  of  the  people  for  his  welfare  quite 
touched  the  priest's  heart.  As  if  by  magic  every- 
thing was  prepared  for  his  departure;  they  tum- 

63 


The  Blood  Lilies 

bled  over  each  other  in  their  eagerness  to  expedite 
his  going.  It  was  a  rare  exhibition  of  Church  in- 
fluence, of  regard  for  his  office,  the  pleased  father 
thought;  it  was  the  devilish  fire-water  seething  in 
the  cellar  of  Benoit,  the  thirsty  ones  knew. 

For  Bruce,  heretical  expounder  of  false  doc- 
trines, the  Romanists  cared  not  a  button ;  and  even 
those  of  his  own  method  of  religion  had  perhaps 
only  a  sharp  reprimand  to  fear.  The  minister 
could  not  make  them  do  penance ;  neither  could  he 
excommunicate  them. 

In  all  the  Northland  there  was  no  known  rea- 
son for  not  getting  hopelessly  in  the  meshes  of  a 
generous  "  drunk  "  except  a  deplorable  scarcity  of 
liquor;  it  was  the  one  touch  of  civilization  obtain- 
able outside  of  religion.  Besides,  it  took  so  little 
to  bowl  over  a  breed  or  an  Indian;  their  suscepti- 
bility to  intoxication  seemed  to  have  been  planned 
wisely  in  its  commensurate  affinity  to  the  limited 
supply. 

Factor  Gourelot  carried  in  the  Hudson  Bay 
stores  what  was  known  as  ''  dark  brandy.^'  Giant 
powder  was  a  dwarf  compared  with  the  expansive 
power  of  this  liquid.  There  was  also  Jamaica 
rum,  scarcely  less  opiatic  in  its  effect  on  humanity. 
The  factor's  supply  was  small,  limited  under  the 
head  of  "  medical  comforts,"  but  at  Christmas 
time,  and  upon  the  occasion  of  his  daughter's  mar- 

64 


The  Blood  Lilies 

riage,  Gourelot  felt  that  he  was  called  upon  to 
relax  somewhat. 

In  extenuation,  it  may  be  said  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  hilarious  fermentation  In  the  cellar  of  the 
illicit  shack. 


65 


CHAPTER    IX 

The  first  night  after  the  wedding  there  was  a 
dance  in  the  Company's  big  log  building,  that  was 
half  workshop,  half  storehouse.  The  floor  was 
cleared  of  obstructive  merchandise  and  a  contin- 
uous plank  seat  strung  around  the  wall. 

The  squaws  and  half-breed  women  sat  hip  to 
hip,  not  unlike  totem  figures,  backed  against  the 
four  walls.  A  door  had  been  detached  from  an 
outbuilding,  and,  resting  on  two  barrels,  it  made 
a  platform  for  the  orchestra.  A  concertina  and  a 
fiddle,  worked  by  strong-armed  men  in  hard  train- 
ing, aggravated  the  dancers  into  fierce  activity. 

The  dim  light,  mazed  by  gaudily  draped  figures, 
suggested  orientalism;  the  asthmatic  scream  of  the 
rasping  bow,  the  wheezing  pump  of  the  concertina, 
the  rhythmic  pat  of  the  moccasined  feet  suggested 
something  entirely  incomprehensible — at  least  it 
would  have  to  a  man  of  modern  habit;  but  to  the 
post  dwellers,  to  the  trailers  of  furred  animals.  It 
was  elysium. 

The  mainstay  of  the  revel  was  the  Red  River 
Jig.    The  ball  had  opened  stately  enough  with  a 

66 


The  Blood  Lilies 

cotillon;  but  Felix  Benoit,  who  added  to  his  pro- 
fession of  blacksmith  the  lighter  office  of  floor- 
master  at  all  the  Fort  Donald  assemblies,  and  who 
had  undertaken  to  "  call  off  "  the  cotillon,  became 
hopelessly  entangled  in  the  middle  of  the  set,  and 
it  had  to  be  abandoned. 

Captain  Ball,  somewhat  of  a  diplomatic  organ- 
izer, had  engineered  this  preliminary  offering  to 
the  Thespian  god;  he  had  rounded  up  Malcolm, 
Factor  Gourelot,  and  Brown,  the  carpenter. 

"  Faith,  the  nichies  is  touchy,"  Ball  said. 
"They're  like  kids;  an'  a  breed  is  a  nichie,  too. 
If  a  white  man  sits  an'  eats  them  out  of  house 
and  home  they  think  he's  a  good  fellow;  but  if  ye 
stand  thim  off  they  sulk.  So  now,  me  bucks,"  he 
continued,  addressing  his  recruits,  "  if  we  jist  open 
the  ball  wit'  a  square  dance  they'll  be  as  plased  as 
a  pig  wit'  a  tin  snoot,  an'  there'll  be  lashin's  av 
fun." 

They  squared  away  bravely  enough,  for  Felix, 
feeling  a  twitch  of  stage-fright,  had  primed  him- 
self with  a  big  tin-cupful  of  his  hop-encourager. 

Suze  Roland,  the  fiddler,  had  tortured  for  ten 
minutes  the  strings  of  his  thin-voiced  instrument, 
working  them  up  to  the  last  point  of  breaking 
strain.  With  a  final  resining  of  the  bow,  he  tapped 
the  back  of  his  fiddle,  drew  an  unearthly  screech 
from  the  discordant  strings,  and  they  were  ready 
for  the  fray. 

67 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  Honor  ze  par'ner!  "  commanded  Benolt. 

Suze  Roland  was  hard  at  it  on  the  fiddle,  not 
quite  into  the  full  swing  of  any  particular  melody. 

Factor  Gourelot's  profound  obeisance  was  a  les- 
son to  rude  people;  the  captain's  possessed  of 
much  heartiness. 

"  Balance  all!  "  cut  in  Benoit,  and  Captain  Ball 
flung  a  double  shuffle  at  his  partner  that  started 
the  dust  in  a  cloud.  Gourelot's  fat  legs  moved  to 
the  rhythm  of  a  minuet;  he  was  really  too  corpu- 
lent for  extreme  grace,  but  his  intentions  were 
good.  Malcolm  delighted  his  lady,  Madam 
Gourelot,  with  an  excerpt  from  the  Highland 
Fling. 

The  rhythm  of  the  music  was  nebulous;  it  ad- 
mitted of  two-four,  three-four,  and  common  time; 
in  fact,  the  question  of  "  time  "  was  one  of  Indi- 
vidual interpretation. 

"Swing  ze  par'ner!"  and  Franchette's  little 
heels  nearly  clipped  a  button  from  the  rotund  form 
of  her  parent  as  energetic  Captain  Ball  swished  her 
around  with  vociferous  vehemence. 

The  factor's  companion  of  the  dance  was  a 
half-breed  girl  of  considerable  avoirdupois,  and 
the  two  rotated  with  proper  decorum. 

Malcolm,  like  most  Hielandmen,  was  agile  for 
his  size,  so  Madam  Gourelot  remained  the  pivot 
of  his  circle.     He  spun  around  her. 

68 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Suze  Roland  had  come  into  the  tune  he  was 
striving  for,  "  The  De'il  among  the  Tailors."  It 
wasn't  exactly  the  cadence  for  a  stately  cotillon, 
but  somehow  the  proper  tune  had  got  mislaid  in 
his  mind,  for  he  played  by  ear. 

''  A  la  main  lef !  "  yelled  Benoit,  thumping 
the  floor  with  his  right  foot  to  the  mad  music  of 
Roland's  extraction.  It  was  delightful — it  was  ex- 
hilarating. 

In  a  corner,  carried  away  by  the  many  things, 
the  hop-brew,  and  the  swift  fiddling,  two  half- 
breeds  were  dancing  a  break-down. 

"  Here,  me  colleen !  "  Ball  had  cried  in  an 
ecstasy  of  fun  as  Franchette  made  a  dash  for 
Malcolm;  and  as  the  four  couples  finally  disen- 
tangled themselves  from  the  sinuous  twist  of  "a 
la  main  lef"  Benoit  called:  "Swing  ze  par'- 
ner!" 

Then  he  went  to  pieces.  The  twisting  figures, 
the  fierce  wail  of  the  angry  fiddle,  the  bad  beer — 
all  these  things  took  hold  of  him,  and  if  it  had 
been  to  save  his  life  he  could  have  remembered 
nothing  but  "  a  la  main  lef." 

Once  more  the  men  cut  away  as  the  sun  circles, 
and  when  they  were  straightened  out  Felix  was 
ready  with  another,  "  Swing  ze  par'ner!  " 

It  wasn't  in  human  nature  to  stand  it.  A  dance, 
and  at  Christmas  time,  should  have  some  sort  of 

69 


The  Blood  Lilies 

variety,  but  "  a  la  main  lef  "  and  "  swing  ze  part- 
ner "  leads  to  nowhere. 

Felix  was  groping  for  the  next  change — it 
wouldn't  come. 

It  was  Suze  Roland  who  really  broke  up  the  set; 
twice  he  had  run  through  "  The  De'il  among  the 
Tailors,"  and  the  dancers  had  accomplished  noth- 
ing, so  to  speak. 

"  Go  on,  go  on  I  "  cried  Captain  Ball. 

Suze  rose  in  his  wrath.  "  What  I  shall  play 
me?  Zat  is  not  cotillon — it  is  ze  prairie-chicken 
dance." 

"  By  Goss !  "  answered  Felix,  "  what  fell'  can 
call  cotillon  to  zat  jig?  I  nevair  hear  such  pig- 
squeak  for  make  cotillon." 

Ball  interposed.  "  Faith,  never  moind,  never 
moindl  I'm  pumped  mesilf.  What  say  ye,  Fac- 
tor-? Let  the  b'ys  have  a  Red  River  Jig.  Go  on, 
Suze,  play  a  jig.  Slip  yer  cable,  Benoit,  the  crew's 
mutineed." 

When  the  fragments  of  the  cotillon  had  been 
brushed  from  the  floor,  so  to  speak,  the  fiddler 
slipped  into  a  palpitating  Red  River  Jig;  a  breed 
darted  at  the  many-colored  human  hedge  that  lined 
the  wall,  made  a  gesture  with  his  hands  in  front 
of  a  demure  squaw,  and,  turning  his  back  on  her, 
slouched  to  the  centre  of  the  room.  Passing  her 
shawl  to  a  neighbor,  the  squaw  followed.    Then 

70 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  jig  took  possession  of  the  two  dervishes,  and 
double-shuffle,  knock  heel,  and  the  whole  gamut 
of  jig  steps  were  hammered  Into  the  floor. 

Soon  another  breed  cut  out  the  first  dancer; 
then  another  squaw  relieved  the  sister  who  still 
toiled ;  and  so  on  for  hours  and  hours. 

The  factor,  madam,  and  Franchette  left  the 
ball  early. 

The  cafe  was  the  little  blacksmith  shop  of  Felix 
Benoit's,  close  by;  and  the  wine  was  the  union  of 
hops  and  sugar  and  the  bacillus  of  intoxication  that 
Benoit  had  brought  in  a  tin  pail.  This  brew  had 
been  fortified.  Increased  In  its  malignity,  by  a  bot- 
tle of  dark  brandy  and  several  vials  of  Jamaica 
ginger.  It  might  be  thought  that  this  was  a  drink 
newly  invented;  but  it  was  of  old-time  habit  In 
Fort  Donald,  and  the  dancers  toyed  with  it  as  a 
babe  returns  to  warm  milk. 

They  were  equally  tireless  In  the  matter  of 
dancing ;  and  the  morning  light,  stealing  In  through 
one  small  window,  fell  upon  a  grotesque  human 
mosaic,  blue  and  red  and  green  and  drab  buck- 
skin that  covered  the  floor;  for,  as  the  end  drew 
near,  everyone  took  part  Indiscriminately  In  the 
dance. 

Sometimes  Suze  Roland  slept  as  he  fiddled,  but 
It  made  little  difference;  the  dance  was  really  the 
thing. 

71 


CHAPTER   X 

The  day  claimed  fresh  diversion:  a  shooting- 
match,  wrestling,  snow-shoe  running,  and  racing 
with  the  trains  of  dogs. 

Captain  Ball,  always  original,  unearthed  a 
phase  of  sport  he  confidentially  assured  Malcolm 
would  provide  them  with  fun  for  a  year.  It  was 
no  less  than  a  conspiracy  to  set  Suze  Roland  and 
Felix  Benoit  at  each  other. 

He  knew  that  the  vendetta  would  lead  to  noth- 
ing beyond  a  war  of  words,  many  boastings,  and 
dire  threats. 

The  mischievous  Irishman  approached  Benoit 
first. 

"  Felix,"  he  said,  *'  Suze  swears  be  the  powers 
that  ye  bust  the  dance." 

Benoit  blew  out  his  breast  in  anger.  "  If  Suze 
say  zat,  I  will  smash  him.  By  Gar!  He's  ole 
fiddle  squeak,  squeak,  squeak.  By  Goss!  What 
you  zink,  Captain — jig  for  cotillon.     Huh!  " 

Then  Ball  interviewed  Roland  the  musician. 

"  Suze,  Benoit  is  blowin'  all  over  the  fort  that 
ye  were  drunk  las'  night,  and  spiled  the  dance  for 
the  factor." 

72 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Suze  had  a  suspicion  that  Benoit  would  throw 
the  blame  upon  him ;  now  he  knew  it. 

"  Felix  is  one  link,"  Suze  declared;  "  he's  drunk, 
an'  can't  call  not'ings." 

"  Ye're  right,  Suze.  Faith,  he  swears  he  could 
take  better  music  from  the  back  of  a  cat  than  ye 
give  the  factor  las'  night." 

Roland  jumped  in  the  air  in  a  rage.  "  By  Gar  I 
I  will  mak'  music  from  he's  nose — I  will  mak'  him 
sing.  Sacre !  Tub  I  "  and  the  fiddler  spat  into 
an  imaginary  face. 

Then  the  genial  captain  sought  once  more 
Felix  Benoit,  and  rendered  unto  him  an  un- 
abridged version  of  Roland's  vicarious  compli- 
ments. 

"Zee  cat!  zee  gopher!  "  Benoit  likened  Suze 
to  all  the  despised  animals  of  creation.  He  was 
even  more  despicable  than  the  white-striped  skunk. 

"  Ye  must  shut  his  mouth,"  declared  Ball. 
"  He'll  be  comin'  to  yer  shack  fer  a  pull  at  the 
beer,  an'  just  t'row  him  out.  If  ye  stan'  up  loike 
the  man  that  ye  are  he'll  run  fer  his  loife — Suze's 
afeared  of  ye,  Felix;  he  knows  ye're  a  holy  terror 
at  foighten." 

The  half-breed  expanded  his  chest,  and  in  his 
eye  was  a  martial  fire. 

"  M'sieu  Captain,  will  you  do  Felix  ze  honor 
of  accepting  a  drink?    Ho,  Boy!  "  he  continued, 

73 


The  Blood  Lilies 

in  salutation,  lifting  his  tin  cup  in  undying  friend- 
ship unto  the  man  who  had  classed  him  a  great 
fighter. 

The  captain's  next  move  was  encouragement 
for  the  leader  of  the  orchestra. 

"  Suze,  that  cat  of  a  Frenchman,  Felix " 

"Frenchman!"  ejaculated  Roland,  in  disgust; 
"he's  not  Frenchman,  he  is  nichie — niggar;  no, 
no,  not  French." 

"  Well,  anyway,  Roland,  he  says  if  ye  stroike 
his  shack  to-day  he'll  t'row  ye  out.  But,  Suze, 
he's  jist  blowin' — he's  afeared  of  his  hfe  of  ye — 
I  know  that.  Ye  could  lick  him  wit'  one  hand 
tied  behind  yer  back;  Felix  knows  it,  too.  Don't 
stand  his  blather,  or  they'll  all  laugh  at  ye — 
they'll  call  ye  '  squaw  man.'  Jist  go  up  bowld  as 
a  lion,  an'  he'll  crawl  under  the  bed." 

"  Captaine,  you  shall  see  how  I  wipe  ze  floor 
wit'  Felix  ze  link.  By  Gar!  Feel  dat,  M'sieu 
Captaine,"  and  Suze  stiffened  his  right  arm  while 
the  Irishman  pinched  the  muscles  of  it. 

"  I'll  put  the  fear  of  God  in  him,  Suze,"  whis- 
pered Ball,  confidently;  "  I'll  tell  him  ye  have  an 
arm  on  ye  loike  a  bear — an'  ye  have.  The  Lord 
pity  Felix  if  ye  swipe  him  wanst.  But,  Suze,  ye 
best  ate  no  dinner — ^jest  starve  yersilf,  an'  ye'll 
have  him.  Divil  a  bit  good  is  a  man  wit'  a  full 
belly  in  a  foight.     And,  Roland,  me  b'y,  I'll  fix 

74 


The  Blood  Lilies 

things.  I'll  take  up  to  Felix's  lashin's  of  grub 
from  the  Company's  store — caribou  tongues,  jam 
— faith,  I  know  the  very  kind  Felix  loikes  to  guz- 
zle— greengage — an'  I'll  take  wan  of  thim  tins 
of  plum-puddin'  that'll  hold  him  down  solid,  for 
he'll  ate  the  whole  of  it,  an'  it'll  be  loike  lead  in 
his  belly.  I'll  load  him  up  to  the  chin,  me  b'y; 
he  won't  last  wan  round — ^ye'll  have  him  pumped 
before  ye  can  say  Jack  Rob'son." 

Roland  squared  himself  dramatically,  and  made 
a  pass  at  an  imaginative  Felix. 

*' Avast,  ye  lubber!  "  cried  Ball,  jumping  back 
in  pretended  affright;  "  if  ye  wanst  let  sliver  that 
left  at  him,  an'  ye  get  home,  me  b'y,  Felix'll  be 
down  and  out.  But  he  won't  stand  up  to  ye, 
Suze;  he'll  take  to  the  woods  when  he  sees  ye 
comin'." 

"  I'll  keel  him,"  declared  Roland,  fiercely;  "  he 
spik  I  can't  play  ze  fiddle.  Sacre  I  A  la  main  lef 
— a  la  main  lef,  zat  all  he  say.    Poof!  " 

"  Come  up  after  dinner,  Suze,"  said  Ball. 
"  Jist  weigh  anchor  after  grub-pile,  an'  come  sail- 
in'  into  the  shack  as  if  ye  meant  to  ate  him.  I'll 
spin  him  a  yarn  about  ye  bein'  fair  crazy  fer  a 
foight;  I'll  rub  a  bit  of  shoe-black  in  me  eye,  an' 
swear  ye  hit  me  a  swipe  that  knocked  the  breath 
av  me." 

I  will  come,"  declared  Roland.     "Au  revoir, 
75 


The  Blood  Lilies 

gallant  Captalne.  I  show  Mister  Link,  le  box,  I 
give  him  ze  lash.  By  Gar!  I  make  music  for 
him." 

Suze  had  worked  himself  up  to  a  frenzy  of 
courageous  anger;  he  pranced  up  and  down  the 
room,  chasing  an  imaginary  Felix  with  left  hooks, 
right  swings,  and  short  jabs.  He  looked  all  over 
a  winner. 

"  Don't  eat,"  begged  the  captain  as  he  left. 
*' But  there'll  be  no  foight;  Felix'll  take  to  the 
woods." 

Then  Ball  hied  him  to  the  shack  of  Felix  Benoit. 
It  was  like  a  hive,  full  of  human  bees  that  had 
come  to  sip  of  the  honey  that  Felix  had  generated 
in  his  kegs.  Casually  enough,  the  mischievous 
Irishman  told  Benoit  that  Suze  was  coming  up  to 
clean  him  out. 

"  Huh!  "     Felix  only  deigned  a  snarl. 

^'  Pretend  ye're  afeared  of  him,"  suggested  Ball, 
"jest  to  draw  him  on  a  bit;  fer  as  soon  as  ye  shake 
yer  fist  in  his  face  he'll  hit  the  trail  fer  home." 

"  If  he  come,  Captaine,  I  knock  him  t'rough  ze 
window.  By  Gar!  las'  summer  down  to  Gran' 
Rapide  I  lick  t'ree  men." 

"  Don't  hit  him  hard,  Felix,"  pleaded  Ball, 
"  jest  toss  him  through  the  door." 

Ball's  promised  feast  for  Felix  was  purely  vis- 
ionary; he  actually  shared  Benoit's  dinner,  for  it 

76 


The  Blood  Lilies 

was  a  land  of  free  eating,  and  all  that  was  in  the 
shack  was  always  at  the  service  of  its  visitors. 

About  two  o'clock  Roland  was  observed  coming 
up  the  hill  with  two  of  his  friends. 

*'  Don't  rush  out  at  him,  Felix,"  commanded 
Ball;  "  let  him  come  in." 

Benoit  had  turned  white  at  sight  of  his  enemy. 
He  spat  on  his  hands  and  walked  fiercely  up  and 
down  the  floor.  "  Spik  him  go  avay,  Captaine ; 
if  he  come  in  here  I  keel  him — I  t'row  him  t' rough 
ze  window." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Ball  jumped 
up  and  opened  it. 

"Ho,  Suze!"  he  cried,  cheerily;  "come  in, 
B'y." 

Roland  and  his  two  friends  stepped  through  the 
door  and  stood  against  the  wall.  Felix  was  there ; 
why  had  he  not  started  for  the  woods  ?  The  cap- 
tain couldn't  have  told  him  about  that  swipe  in 
the  eye. 

Felix  glared  furtively  at  his  adversary,  and 
threw  his  shoulders  back  to  show  the  breadth  of 
his  chest.  Did  the  crazy  fiddler  actually  mean  to 
fight  him? 

"  Have  a  drink,  B'y,"  said  Ball,  passing  the  tin 
cup  to  the  new  arrivals. 

Suze  clutched  at  the  cup  eagerly;  the  drink 
would  brace  him  up — he  was  a  bit  nervous. 

77 


The  Blood  Lilies 

One  of  Felix's  friends  started  to  whistle  de- 
risively the  jig  Suze  had  played  at  the  dance.  A 
sickly  smile  hovered  on  the  thin  lips  of  Felix. 

Sacrebleu !  it  was  a  sneer,  Suze  thought. 

"  That  was  a  foine  cotillon  last  night,"  said 
Ball,  for  an  oppressive  silence,  bar  the  whistle, 
hung  over  the  room. 

Everybody  laughed  —  even  Felix  —  everybody 
but  Suze. 

"  Non,  non!  "  cried  Roland,  deprecatingly ;  "  I 
make  ze  bad  music — I  hear  'tis  all  my  fault. 
Some  feir  is  drunk,  an'  makes  a  damn  fool,  zen 
Suze  can'  play  ze  fiddle." 

Benoit  flared  hot.  "  Suze  Roland,  you  come 
here  for  make  row.  By  Gar!  you  say  I  drunk? 
Who  can  make  a  cotillon  to  pig-squeak?  Whee- 
whee-whee !  "  and  Benoit  squealed  through  his 
nose  like  a  troubled  porker. 

"  A  la  main  lef,  a  la  main  lef,"  yelled  Suze. 
"  SvingI — dat's  cotillon." 

"  By  Gar,  Suze  Roland !  "  screamed  Felix,  shak- 
ing his  fist  In  the  air,  "  s'pose  dis  not  my  shack  I 
wipe  ze  floor  wit'  you." 

Ball  had  thrust  his  broad  body  between  the  two 
angry  men.    Thus  encouraged,  Suze  waxed  wroth. 

"  I  don'  lick  no  man  In  hees  own  shack;  but 
sacre!  Felix,  if  I  catch  you  some  time  on  ze  trail, 
I  pound  ze  eart'  wiz  you." 

78 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  Marse !  *'  yelled  Felix,  "  get  out,  I  tVow  you 
t'rough  ze  window." 

The  others  had  crowded  about  the  two  men, 
and  the  excitement  was  intense. 

"  Come  outside  I  "  yelled  Roland,  and  he  made 
for  the  door,  feeling  sure  Felix  would  not  dare  to 
follow. 

*' Yes,  yes!"  everybody  ejaculated;  "outside, 
outside  I  "  and  the  crowd  streamed  through  the 
open  doorway.  Perhaps  a  fight  would  have  ma- 
tured out  of  all  the  recrimination — it  is  difficult  to 
say ;  but  at  that  instant  there  was  a  terrific  crash — 
the  plank  floor  heaved  upward  as  though  a  volcano 
had  suddenly  been  unchained;  the  boards  were 
sent  flying,  and  a  something  shot  upward,  carry- 
ing away  the  mud  roof,  and  all  but  taking  Felix 
with  it.  A  shower  of  bad  beer  deluged  every- 
body. One  of  the  kegs  in  the  little  cellar  beneath 
had  exploded. 

A  stool,  hurled  with  force,  caught  Suze  in  the 
ribs ;  he  thought  Felix  had  treacherously  shot  him. 
He  toppled  over  and  rolled  down  the  hill,  yelling 
that  he  was  shot;  at  the  bottom  he  lay  moaning, 
with  his  hand  on  his  side,  trying  to  hide  from  the 
vicious  rifle  of  his  treacherous  enemy. 

In  fact,  everybody  was  badly  frightened,  and 
ran  in  all  directions;  it  appeared  quite  likely  that 

79 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Benolt's  store  of  powder  had  blown  up — every- 
body kept  powder  in  the  shack  for  the  hunt. 

In  extenuation  of  Roland's  peculiar  retreat  it 
may  be  said  that  even  Ball,  instigator  of  all  the 
evil,  took  to  his  heels  under  the  impression  that  a 
retribution  had  come  to  him  for  his  mischief. 

Felix  was  hurled  through  the  door  by  the  shock. 
His  first  thought — this  even  was  some  time  in 
coming,  for  he  was  fair  dazed — was  that  Roland 
had  dropped  a  canister  of  powder  in  his  stove  to 
blow  him  up.  Seeing  the  others  in  flight,  he,  too, 
ran  for  his  life. 

Luckily  the  women  folks,  feeling  that  they  were 
in  the  way  of  so  many  men,  had  gone  to  a 
neighbor's,  else  there  might  have  been  an  actual 
tragedy. 

Ball,  being  stout,  naturally  ran  down  hill,  in  his 
eagerness  almost  falling  over  Suze  Roland,  who 
was  lying  as  flat  as  possible  in  the  snow. 

"  Fm  keel !  "  squealed  Suze,  as  the  captain  was 
on  the  point  of  dashing  into  him.  The  voice 
checked  the  Irishman's  mad  career.  "  O  Cap- 
taine,  zat  scoundrel  have  shot  me  in  ze  back.  I 
t'ink  me  I  sure  die.  Help  me,  Captaine,  I  can't 
get  up." 

''  Shot  nothin' !  "  roared  Ball,  as  he  looked 
back  at  the  dismantled  shack.  "  Felix's  whole 
caboose  is  blowed  up." 

80 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  Fm  not  shot,  Captaine?"  queried  Suze,  ex- 
ultantly. 

"No,  ye  silly  lubber;  what  did  ye  run  for?" 
Ball  thought  to  hide  his  own  retreat  in  recrim- 
ination. 

Roland  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at  the 
huge  hole  in  the  roof  of  Benoit's  log  castle. 

"  What  haf  happen?  "  he  queried. 

"  The  divil  a  know  do  I,''  retorted  Ball,  shortly. 
"  Sure  I  thought  the  whole  world  come  to  an  end 
when  the  t'ing  blowed  up." 

Suze's  courage  came  back  when  he  found  him- 
self still  alive  and  not  likely  to  die. 

"  By  Goss,  Captaine,"  he  said,  "  if  ze  shack 
haf  not  blow  up,  I  haf  lick  Felix  so  he  nevaire  call 
no  more  dance." 

"  Let's  go  and  see,"  said  Ball.  "  PVaps  some- 
one's kilt." 

When  they  got  back  to  the  scene  of  disaster, 
Felix  and  the  others  had  returned  and  were  gazing 
at  the  explanation  of  the  wreck. 

Perched  in  the  snow  on  the  roof  of  a  small  in- 
cline rested  the  disrupted  beer-keg.  It  leered  at 
them  from  its  spreading  staves. 

**  Are  ye  hurted,  Felix?"  queried  Ball,  solici- 
tously. 

"  No,"  answered  the  householder;  "  but  ze  roof 

is  bust,  an'  ze  beer " 

8i 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"HivinsI  it's  all  gone,"  said  Ball;  he  hadn't 
appreciated  the  full  extent  of  the  calamity. 

A  moan  went  up  from  the  others ;  they  switched 
their  sympathy  from  Felix  over  the  roof  to  them- 
selves over  the  beer.  The  building  could  be  re- 
paired, but  it  would  take  days  to  work  up  such  a 
fierce  fermentation  again — ^besides,  the  hops  were 
all  gone. 

In  the  general  misery  the  feud  between  Felix 
and  Suze  sank  into  nothingness;  it  was  a  trifle. 
At  such  times  internal  strife  could  not  be  tolerated. 

*'  Tell  Felix  ye're  sorry  for  him,  Suze,"  com- 
manded Ball.  "  Ye  froightened  the  loife  out  of 
him,  an'  it's  yer  place  to  make  up.  Here,  Felix," 
called  the  captain,  "  come  and  shake  hands  with 
Suze.  Two  good  men  loike  y'u  should  be  foighten 
together,  not  foighten  each  other." 

"  By  Goss !  "  said  Benoit,  coming  forward,  "  we 
been  frien's  long  teme.  I  forgot  for  call  proper 
zat  cotillon." 

"  Sacre !  "  interrupted  Roland,  "  many  times  I 
play  cotillon  proper,  but  las'  nigh'  my  old  fiddle 
she  jus'  bound  play  jig  all  tem.  I  lick  plenty  fell' 
in  my  teme,  Felix,  but  I  don'  want  fight  you." 

"  An'  I  don'  want  fight  my  old  frien',"  added 
Felix. 

They  clasped  each  other  in  their  arms,  and 
buried  the  hatchet. 

82 


CHAPTER   XI 

Malcolm  had  not  gone  to  see  Ball's  drawing 
of  the  two  Frenchmen.  Ordinarily  he  would  have 
been  of  the  party,  but  the  intoxication  he  quaffed 
from  the  black  eyes  of  Franchette  gave  him  a  dis- 
taste for  the  bad  beer  of  Benoit's  brewing.  Be- 
sides, the  Bruce  was  still  with  them,  and  had  they 
not  lain  back  to  back  in  that  cavern  of  death,  the 
snow-mound  of  the  blizzard? 

Big  Sandy  and  Factor  Gourelot  had  hobnobbed 
together  all  day.  Always  full  of  considerable  re- 
spect for  each  other,  the  present  occasion  was  one 
to  make  soft  the  hearts  of  even  more  obdurate 
men. 

In  the  factor's  office-den,  that  boasted  a  huge 
iron  box-stove,  Gourelot  and  Cameron  sat  and 
smoked,  and  passed  each  other  back  and  forth  the 
dark  brandy  that  was  like  the  corked  essence  of 
Sheol. 

In  the  first  mellowness  of  its  touch  Sandy  com- 
miserated with  Gourelot  upon  his  defeat.  He 
even  suggested — it  was  after  the  third  round — 

83 


The  Blood  Lilies 

that  perhaps  It  would  be  "  na  mair  nor  fair  that 
half  the  children  should  be  allowed  to  the  Goure- 
lot  manner  of  faith."  But  the  factor  wouldn't 
have  it. 

"  Mon  Dieu !  was  not  a  bargain  a  bargain — 
did  not  the  Company  always  keep  its  word,  even 
if  the  loss  were  heavy?  "  And  Gourelot  had  come 
from  an  ancestry  that  held  their  plighted  word 
above  everything. 

The  dark  brandy  was  passed  again  at  this 
point.  Yes,  Gourelot  had  continued,  even  if  the 
children  were  predestined  for  eternal  misery  be- 
cause of  their  Protestant  belief,  what  mattered  it? 
He,  as  a  factor  of  the  great  Company  and  a  French 
gentleman,  had  kept  his  word.  Pooh !  He  threw 
out  his  chest  and  blinked  at  Sandy  for  approbation. 

But  Cameron  was  nettled  at  the  other's  refer- 
ence to  the  ultimate  fate  of  Malcolm's  offsprings, 
his  grandchildren;  also,  it  was  a  Papist  slight 
on  his  religion.  Sandy  grew  very  solemn.  The 
brandy  was  coursing  through  his  hot  Scotch  blood, 
and  in  that  condition  the  big  HIelander  was  usually 
very  akin  to  a  dangerous  animal. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was  in  the  house  of 
Franchette's  father,  and  hospitality  was  almost  as 
sacred  as  the  religion  he  was  ever  ready  to  fight 
for.  So  he  answered,  taking  a  great  pull  at  him- 
self:  "  Weel,  Factor,  we'll  jus'  drap  It.    I'm  thlnk- 

84 


The  Blood  Lilies 

in\  whatever,  we'll  ken  o'  the  future  afore  the 
bairns  gang  yon  way.  Ye'll  be  bidin'  for  yer  ain 
kind,  most  like,  an'  I'll  be  seeing  the  Protestants 
comin'  mesel'.  An'  I'm  thinkin'  I'd  be  pleased 
tae  be  wi'  Malcolm's  bairnies  whichever  way  they 
hae  tae  go.  So  dinna  pother  about  it,  Factor; 
we'll  jus'  drink  up  a  dochna  doris,  an'  I'll  awa' 
hame  tae  see  hoo  the  lassie's  takin'  tae  Jeanie." 

Gourelot  was  for  keeping  Cameron  longer,  but 
Sandy  had  an  additional  reason  for  wishing  to 
cut  out.  The  minister  was  stopping  at  his  shack, 
and  the  fierce  strength  of  the  dark  brandy  was 
already  playing  funny  tricks  with  his  tongue — it 
was  of  an  extraordinary  thickness. 

Even  the  w^alk  home  did  not  better  matters, 
and  the  sharp  eye  of  Bruce  saw  with  regret  that 
Cameron  was  well  in  the  grasp  of  the  demon. 

Perhaps  even  Jeanie,  wife  to  big  Sandy,  may 
have  whispered  the  minister  to  speak  a  word  to 
her  husband  about  the  drink. 


85 


CHAPTER   XII 

Ross  Bruce,  however,  upbraided  no  man.  He 
had  observed  with  pain  the  muddled  condition  of 
the  post  dwellers.  He  knew  that  liquor  was  the 
one  accursed  thing  carried  in  the  van  of  that 
western  civilization;  where  the  white  man  went, 
liquor  went.  To  the  breed  and  the  Indian,  it  was 
absolute  poison;  a  poison  with  the  fatal  fascina- 
tion of  the  loco  plant. 

The  law,  strict  as  it  was,  must  depend  for  exe- 
cution upon  those  in  authority;  therefore  he  held 
Factor  Gourelot  and  big  Sandy,  who  was  a  leader, 
morally  responsible  for  the  drunken  condition  of 
Fort  Donald. 

With  this  matter  in  his  heart  he  prayed  for 
light — ^how  best  he  could  counteract  the  evil  influ- 
ence. And  it  came  to  him  that,  when  he  took  the 
functions  of  his  priestly  office  on  the  Sabbath, 
which  was  the  next  day,  he  could  speak  with  au- 
thority. Cameron's  respect  for  the  house  of  God 
would  cause  him  to  listen  with  a  contrite  heart. 

The  Bruce,  as  minister  of  God,  was  there  to 
86 


The  Blood  Lilies 

assail  sin;  and  the  sin,  rampant  In  all  Its  hideous 
evidence,  was  drink,  with  Its  fierce  power  over  the 
morally  paralyzed  breeds  and  Indians. 

The  Scotch  minister  was  far  too  broad-minded 
to  lend  his  splendid  powers  to  any  fanatical  nar- 
rowness. Even  In  the  priesthood  there  are  many 
degrees  of  variation,  extending  from  wise  toler- 
ance to  Intolerant  reasoning. 

So  far  as  Bruce's  office  was  concerned,  nothing 
in  all  the  great  land,  nothing  affecting  Its  noble 
race  of  men,  was  of  such  vital  Importance  as  the 
soul-and-body-destroying  liquor.  The  magnitude 
of  his  task  appealed  to  him,  urged  him  to  effort; 
but  its  seeming  hopelessness  sickened  his  soul.  It 
was  a  contest  between  the  Bible  and  the  bottle; 
the  saving  or  destruction  of  a  race.  Religion,  the 
mission  of  God,  had  narrowed  Itself  down  to  that. 

And  the  bottle  had  acquired  such  a  tremendous 
lead.  For  all  time  the  white  man  had  used  it 
to  overcome  the  red. 

The  Company  had  steeped  a  generation  of  Ind- 
ians In  strong  spirits,  till  they  were  as  lotus-eaters. 
Then  the  white  man  had  made  a  law  prohibiting 
liquor,  and  others  of  the  white  race  broke  It  in 
many  places  and  at  all  times. 

Where  Bruce  stood,  Bible  In  hand,  seeking  for 
regeneration,  half  a  thousand  of  his  own  kind  ran 
with  swift  feet  carrying  the  extract  of  destruction. 

87 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Surely  the  Master's  word  had  few  lieutenants, 
where  the  army  of  the  Evil  One  was  so  strong. 
He  was  the  keeper  of  his  brother;  but  the  land 
was  strident  with  the  voices  of  those  disclaiming 
responsibility. 

There  was  no  regular  kirk,  no  church  building 
at  Fort  Donald;  the  people  assembled  in  the 
Company's  warehouse.  There  were  even  few 
chairs  to  be  had  from  the  rude  shacks;  bales  of 
fur  and  boxes  of  merchandise  were  arranged  in 
rows,  and  on  these  the  dwellers  sat  and  listened 
to  a  sermon  of  simple  eloquence. 

Protestants  and  Catholics  alike  were  there. 
Captain  Ball  advised  Suze  Roland  to  bring  Felix 
Benoit,  who  was  a  Romanist. 

*'  The  minister  is  angry  wit'  ye,  Suze,"  he  said. 
"  He's  heered  of  the  rumpus,  an'  the  busted  beer- 
keg;  so  go,  loike  a  good  little  man,  an'  bring 
Benoit;  come  arm  in  arm  if  ye  loike,  jes'  to  show 
there's  no  grudge." 

So,  true  enough,  the  two  warlike  ones  sat  meek- 
ly, shoulder  to  shoulder,  on  a  bale  of  bearskin- 
covered  beaver  pelts. 

Sandy  and  his  good  wife  Jeanie,  Malcolm  and 
Franchette,  Factor  Gourelot  and  Madam,  were  in 
the  front  row,  which  was  made  up  of  chairs  and 
three-legged  stools.  The  squaws  brought  their 
children,  even  to  the  babes  in  arms. 

88 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  pulpit  was  a  most  original  conception.  The 
huge  beam  had  been  taken  out  of  the  fur-press, 
the  posts  draped  with  red  cloth,  and,  though  it 
looked  somewhat  like  an  auctioneer's  box,  it  was 
altogether  most  serviceable. 

Just  at  the  opening  hymn  Wolf  Runner  slipped 
furtively  through  the  door  and  sat  meekly  in  a 
f?r  corner.  Like  many  of  the  Indians  present 
he  would  not  understand  the  English  sermon;  but 
the  ogama  who  had  pulled  him  and  little  Mas- 
ki-sls  from  the  cold  death  and  warmed  them  back 
to  life  was  to  speak,  was  to  hold  forth  as  a  medi- 
cine-man. 

Once  upon  a  time  Ross  Bruce  had  sat  in  mental 
torture — it  was  at  Saskatchewan  Landing — while 
a  most  worthy  bishop  of  his  Church  rendered  unto 
the  small  congregation  of  fur-trapping  breeds  a 
scholarly  sermon  on  the  beautiful  life  of  St.  Paul. 
The  bishop  was  an  Oxford  man,  and,  for  the  mat- 
ter of  that,  the  sermon  was  ethically  an  Oxford 
sermon.  The  effect  was  pretty  much  the  same 
as  might  have  been  produced  by  a  French  half- 
breed  giving  his  Ideas  of  the  higher  life  before 
the  faculty  of  that  university.  It  was  a  distinct 
folly.  Bruce  knew  that.  He  would  not  make 
that  mistake;  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  was 
haunted  by  the  not-to-be-eradicated  fear  that  his 
own  efforts,  no  matter  how  simply  directed — his 

89 


The  Blood  Lilies 

logic,  clothed  in  the  most  commonplace  terms, 
might  prove  as  barren  of  results,  as  useless  as  the 
folly  of  the  bishop.  It  was  a  heart-breaking  con- 
viction, the  belief  that  in  these  children  of  the 
plain  and  forest  was  not  left  enough  moral  force 
to  stand  against  their  physical  desires. 

But  to  burke  the  disagreeable  truth — close  his 
eyes  to  actual  conditions,  and  expect  to  regenerate 
in  one  day  by  a  Christian  appeal  to  their  moral 
natures  a  people  debased  by  a  century  of  godless 
debauchery,  would  be  a  folly  as  great  as  the  bish- 
op*s  misdirected  effort.  His  course  was  plainly  to 
form  a  coalition — to  lessen  the  opposition  of  the 
suicides  by  showing  them  their  inevitable  fate,  and 
to  impress  the  powers,  Sandy  and  the  factor,  with 
the  tremendous  responsibility  God  had  put  upon 
them  when  He  had  made  them  of  the  house  of 
Shem. 

Sandy  Cameron  groaned  inwardly  when  the 
minister,  standing  in  the  fur-press  that  was  a  pul- 
pit, read  the  text : 

"  Noah  began  to  be  an  husbandman.  And  he 
planted  a  vineyard;  and  he  drank  of  the  wine  and 
was  drunken." 

Had  Bruce  not  uttered  another  word  Sandy 
Cameron  would  have  gone  home  abashed.  Was 
not  he  Noah — was  not  he  a  patriarch  there  among 
these  children  of  little  understanding?   Bruce  had 

90 


The  Blood  Lilies 

not  reproached  him,  and  he  had  hoped  for  a  silent 
reprieve. 

Very  quietly,  as  a  man  handles  delicate  china, 
the  minister  explained  with  simpleness  that  Noah 
fell  through  ignorance.  The  wine  seemed  good 
to  him,  and  he  drank  of  it  beyond  reason.  Then 
he  had  the  saving  grace  of  shame  and  anger 
against  Ham  who  had  looked  upon  this  evil  with 
levity. 

The  red  men  had  been  like  Noah  in  their  igno- 
rance. God  had  favored  them  beyond  all  races, 
for  liquor  was  not  of  their  glorious  heritage  of 
birthright. 

When,  to  their  eternal  shame,  the  white  men 
had  brought  the  fire-water,  the  Indians  had  taken 
it  as  did  Noah ;  it  warmed  their  hearts  and  made 
them  joyous;  and  then  it  mastered  them,  and  they 
lay  like  the  Patriarch,  naked  in  their  misery. 

In  his  drunkenness  Noah  must  have  quaffed  the 
dregs  of  bitterness,  and  must  have  seen  with  pro- 
phetic eye  how  the  bottle  demon  would  go  down 
through  all  ages,  like  a  pestilential  fiend,  casting 
disgrace  and  sin  through  the  nations.  In  his  wrath 
he  cursed  his  own  son.  Ham,  because  he  looked 
with  such  toleration,  such  levity,  upon  this  terrible 
blight. 

The  minister  had  lingered  for  a  space  in  the 
distant  ages ;  now  in  his  discourse  he  came  at  once 

91 


The  Blood  Lilies 

to  the  homes  of  his  hearers.  He  pictured  the  curse 
of  Ham  as  existing  at  that  day  in  Fort  Donald. 

As  to  the  ethical  construction,  born  of  learned 
wranglings,  to  be  placed  upon  the  picture  of 
Noah's  condition,  he  troubled  not  the  simple  lis- 
teners; his  construction  would,  perhaps,  by  God's 
grace,  give  him  a  command  of  the  two  factions — 
the  drinkers  and  their  should-be  guardians? 

''  *  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?'  was  the  cow- 
ardly evasive  question  of  a  murderer,"  the  min- 
ister said,  with  solemn  earnestness.  *'  The  man 
who  denies  a  common  brotherhood,  with  all  its 
human  obligation,  and  stands,  like  Peter,  by  the 
fire  warming  himself  in  the  hour  of  trial,  is  a 
coward,  and  may  be  morally  a  murderer." 

Again  Cameron  writhed  on  his  three-legged 
stool.  Beads  of  perspiration  glistened  like  dew- 
drops  on  the  smooth  brow  of  Factor  Gourelot. 
Was  not  he,  as  factor,  more  than  ever  a  keeper 
of  these  frail  brothers  who  were  so  utterly  within 
his  influence?  In  the  name  of  the  good  God,  who 
had  told  M'sieu  Bruce  that  he  had  been  stripped 
of  his  moral  raiment  by  the  dark  brandy? 

The  Scotch  minister's  shrewd  eye  saw  the  trepi- 
dation of  the  leaders,  and  it  nerved  him.  He  was 
almost  Jesuitical  in  his  striving  for  good  that  day. 
Behind  the  affected  ones  were  many  rows  of  dark 
faces  which  gave  no  light  of  hope,  no  responding 

92 


The  Blood  Lilies 

look  of  humiliation  or  regret.  When  the  actual 
wrath  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  which  was  always 
a  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  priests,  had  done  so 
little  to  keep  these  morally  indifferent  ones  from 
alcoholic  sin,  what  could  his  simple  rhetoric 
achieve?  Even  between  the  Bruce's  strongest 
arguments  of  denunciation  these  thoughts  stalked 
in  his  mind  like  a  cry  of  despair.  The  rebellion 
evident  in  the  swarthy  faces  could  be  spelled, 
"  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,  Upharsin." 

And  it  was  because  of  his  own  people,  the 
whites.  He  could  have  stood  there  in  the  fur- 
press  and  cursed,  like  Noah,  his  own  for  this 
wronging  of  a  race. 

It  was  all  in  rebellion  to  God's  law;  the  union 
of  the  two  races,  white  and  red,  was  contrary  to 
his  law.  And  there  in  front  of  the  minister,  in 
serried  rank,  sat  the  embodiment  of  this  ungodly 
union,  moral  weaklings.  Still  he  must  go  on ;  and 
to  reach  them,  the  Indians,  even  stretch  a  theo- 
logical point — talk  to  them  of  their  own  God,  of 
Manitou.  He  bade  them,  if  they  would  not  come 
to  his  God,  to  be  true  to  their  own. 

"  Manitou  taught  you  no  evil,"  he  said.  "  He 
showed  you  not  the  drink  demon.  Your  sin  was 
bloodshed;  the  same  sin  of  refusing  the  animating 
spirit  of  love — love  for  your  fellow-creatures. 
When  you  made  war,  you  prayed  to  Manitou  for 

93 


The  Blood  Lilies 

success,  and  if  you  won  the  battle  you  thought  he 
was  pleased  with  you,  had  given  you  the  favor  of 
his  support.  That  was  a  sin  and  a  lie  against  your 
God,  for  his  wrath  because  of  the  bloodshed  al- 
ways came  back  to  you ;  your  songs  of  victory  were 
changed  to  the  crying  of  your  women  at  night  for 
the  braves  that  were  not. 

"  And  when  you  put  the  fire-water  into  the 
hands  of  your  brothers,  they  are  slain,  and  it  is  a 
sin  against  your  God  and  my  God.  There  is  heard 
only  in  the  tent  of  your  people  the  wail  of  your 
women  at  night  and  the  crying  of  your  children, 
for  the  braves  of  your  tribe  are  dishonored  and 
dead.  My  people  have  put  this  accursed  poison 
in  your  hands,  and  you  have  looked  upon  these 
foes  as  friends.  And  I  ask  you,  if  God-fearing 
men  of  my  race  seek  to  save  you  from  this  death, 
look  upon  them  as  true  friends,  and  not  in  enmity." 

Bruce  spoke  of  fire  to  the  dwellers.  How  care- 
fully they  guarded  their  camp-fire  when  on  the 
summer  trail,  lest  it  spread  and  sweep  to  destruc- 
tion the  grass-covered  prairie  with  its  buffalo  and 
antelope,  and  the  forest,  wherein  were  the  beaver 
and  otter.  Then  he  pictured,  with  the  graphic 
word-painting  of  a  Cree  orator,  the  fire-swept  hill- 
side that  backed  Fort  Donald.  On  its  breast  were 
the  skeleton  forms  of  trees,  some  black,  some 
white,  at  whose  roots  the  fire  had  licked  with  burn- 

94 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ing  tongue.  The  liquor  was  a  fire,  a  forest  fire, 
burning  the  roots  of  their  existence  and  scorching 
their  souls  till  they  shrivelled  up  and  became  like 
the  barkless  trees,  tombstones  to  wrecked  lives. 

The  minister  sought  to  draw  the  different  In- 
terests a  little  closer  together.  For  a  day  he  would 
be  in  Fort  Donald,  then  for  many  days  the  dwell- 
ers would  be  their  own  spiritual  guides.  He  said : 
**  There  is  only  one  sermon  to  preach  all  the  world 
over,  to  be  preached  of  all  creeds  and  of  all  peo- 
ples. It  is  the  message  of  your  little  priest,  you 
that  have  that  faith;  it  is  the  sustaining  influence 
of  humanity  and  God,  the  animating  spirit  of  love. 
Without  it  nothing  avails.  When  your  mothers 
scarify  their  limbs  with  sharp  flints  it  is  because 
they  have  lost  someone  they  love ;  when  your  Ind- 
ians find  a  white  man  lost  and  starving,  and  you 
feed  him,  it  is  because  of  human  love.  Of  love 
comes  happiness;  and  of  hate,  misery.  Drink  is 
the  black  wampum — its  message  Is  war  and  de- 
struction; the  word  of  God  is  the  white  wampum, 
and  its  message  is  love.  Let  those  In  authority, 
the  ogamas,  keep  this  fire-water  out  of  your  camps 
because  of  love,  and  you  who  are  our  brothers  be 
not  angry  if,  because  of  love  for  you,  they  do  this." 

The  minister  talked  still  further  In  his  efforts 
to  make  the  dwellers  see  that  those  who  poisoned 
them  to  death  were  enemies  as  great  as  those  who 

95 


The  Blood  Lilies 

sought  their  lives  with  the  knife.  Possessed  of 
his  great  love  for  humanity,  and  grave  in  his  ear- 
nestness, Bruce  silenced  the  voice  that  cried  out 
within  him,  ''  Mene,  mene,"  and  craved  of  God 
for  the  power  of  the  pool  of  Siloam  for  these  peo- 
ple who  were  tainted  of  alcohol. 

And  at  the  end  this  thing  happened  which  was 
like  a  fanatical  appeal  from  a  narrow-minded  en- 
thusiast; it  wasn^t  that  at  all,  it  was  the  wise  plea 
of  a  great-minded  man. 

"  You  must  not  have  the  accursed  fire-water 
amongst  you  at  all.  Leave  it  to  them  who  can 
take  it  safely — if  there  are  any  such.  You  know 
that  the  food  of  one  animal  is  not  the  food  of  an- 
other; the  buffalo  could  not  wax  fat  on  the  poplar- 
bark  of  the  beaver,  nor  the  bear  come  to  his 
strength  on  the  short  dry  grass  that  is  good  to 
the  buffalo.  To  you  the  fire-water  Is  as  the  loco 
plant — once  tasted  it  claims  Its  victims  to  death. 
In  Fort  Donald  every  man,  factor  and  trapper, 
must  see  to  It  that  not  one  drop  of  this  poison  is 
obtainable.  In  God's  pleasure  you  will  thrive,  and 
In  God's  anger  you  will  achieve  to  the  curse  that 
follows  drunkenness.  And  In  the  end  I  crave  for 
you  the  animating  spirit  of  God's  love  and  human 
love.    *  Love  ye  one  another.'  " 


96 


CHAPTER   XIII 

The  faces  that  had  been  masks,  heavy  In  vacu- 
ity, repellent  in  their  stoical  complacency,  came 
out  of  their  torpor  in  the  sunlight. 

Ordinarily  a  sermon  was  simply  part  of  an  ob- 
servance. The  people  being  possessed  of  a  fatuous 
fancy  that  somehow,  subconsciously  as  it  were, 
the  discourse,  even  though  not  listened  to,  purified 
them  somewhat  of  their  many  sins;  and  that,  hav- 
ing sat  there  in  the  house  of  God,  their  punish- 
ment would  be  most  certainly  mitigated.  But  this 
day  the  minister  had  talked  on  a  subject  that  in- 
terested them  at  all  times — drink.  Outside  of 
"  grub,''  or  furs,  it  was  the  paramount  thing  in 
their  lives. 

The  Bruce's  sermon,  in  English,  had  many  In- 
terpreters rendering  it  into  Cree  for  those  who 
had  not  understood.  It  must  be  said  that  some 
of  the  versions  were  wondrous  and  unabridged. 
Might  the  minister  have  listened  to  the  rendering 
of  his  oratory  he  would  have  been  astonished,  per- 
haps scandalized.  According  to  some  accounts  he 
had  accused  the  "Cameron  of  emulating  Noah  lit- 
erally in  his  cups. 

97 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  vagaries  of  the  sermon's  effect  were  beyond 
all  calculation.  Somehow,  taken  all  in  all,  this 
religion  of  the  Protestant  ministers,  which  the 
Catholics  considered  no  religion  at  all,  was  actually 
more  exacting,  harsher  in  its  commands,  than  the 
true  belief.  Their  little  excess — and  already  they 
felt  as  well  as  ever  again — was  to  debar  them 
for  ever  and  ever  from  the  pleasures  of  a  good 
time. 

The  Catholics  most  certainly  had  the  better  of 
the  argument.  When  the  little  father  came  again 
to  Fort  Donald  the  inebriates  might  confess — 
that  is,  if  the  factor,  who  was  a  good  Catholic, 
deemed  it  necessary — and  be  forgiven.  The  min- 
ister, who  was  not  their  spiritual  leader,  had 
better  go  and  scold  his  own  people  at  Buffalo 
Neck. 

"  Poof!  "  one  said,  as  a  group  of  them  jour- 
neyed along,  "  ze  good  book  spik  of  gran'  wine 
— many  time  it  spik.  For  Fort  Donald  is  only 
water,  or  we  nevair  see  le  bon  Dieu." 

"  I  t'ink  me  I  have  read  plenty  time  in  ze  book 
'bout  dat  wine,"  declared  Lerocq;  "  it  spik  de 
Seigneur  always  put  a  new  wine  in  good  strong 
bottles,  not  trus'  de  ole  bottle,  for  he's  goin'  bus'." 

"  Felix  don'  know  dat,"  said  the  first  speaker, 
laughing.  "  Nex'  time  he  mus'  get  de  new  keg, 
den  we  don'  lose  all  de  bully  strong  beer." 

98 


The  Blood  Lilies 

There  were  many  hours  of  discussion  of  the 
same  tenor,  showing  that  the  reformer's  trail  ran 
through  a  thorn-thicket  of  indifferent  sinfulness; 
thorns  that  tore  to  pieces  and  rent  a  simple  logic 
of  love  and  faith  with  their  silly,  useless  points. 

As  Bruce  left  the  church  Sandy  Cameron  joined 
him,  and  they  walked  together. 

"  Ye  did  vera  weel,"  Cameron  said. 

A  big  sigh  smothered  in  Bruce's  chest.  He  had 
tried,  but  to  what  success  he  had  attained  was 
troubling  him  much. 

"  Yon  discoorse  o'  Noah's  fall  was  strong," 
Sandy  continued;  "  I'm  thinkin' — weel,  Meenister, 
there's  na  doot  aboot  it — I  was  just  Noah;  yes.  It 
was  a  grand  thocht.  I  ken  It  a'.  If  ye  had  talked 
tae  me  aboot  bein'  fu',  I  might  hae  rebelled,  mon, 
one  canna  tell;  one's  dender  is  an  uncertain,  sinfu' 
thing." 

Cameron  walked  a  little  In  silence,  for  Bruce  did 
not  answer.  Suddenly  he  put  his  big  brawny  hand 
on  the  minister's  arm,  and  said,  solemnly:  "  It'll 
be  mony  a  lang  day  afore  these'll  look  upon  the 
nakedness  o'  Noah  again,  whatever." 

Bruce  held  out  his  hand,  and  big  Sandy  clasped 
it  in  compact. 

"  You've  taken  a  load  off  my  mind,  Cameron; 
I  had  a  feelin'  o'  defeat.  Last  night  I  walked  up 
and  down  the  trail  in  prayer — ^just  asking  of  God, 

99 


The  Blood  Lilies 

as  I  walked,  for  grace  to  make  a  bit  head  against 
the  rum.'* 

*'  An'  He  gie  it  ye — the  sermon  was  powerfu', 
it  jus'  gripped  me." 

"  But  the  others — what  of  the  poor  creatures 
that  are  slaves  to  it,  carryin'  the  curse  o'  Canaan 
— I  could  not  see  a  spark  of  redemption — their 
faces  were  just  full  of  rebellious  accusation;  they 
were  holding  the  sin  of  our  own  whites  against 
all  my  pleading." 

Bruce  spoke  impetuously,  his  soul  warring 
against  the  inevitable. 

"I'll  be  away  in  a  day,"  he  continued;  "you 
have  no  kirk,  nor  anyone  to  preach  the  word  of 
God.  The  factor  is  a  Catholic,  and  he  won't  take 
the  service." 

"  Ye're  meanin',  Meenister,  I  might  tkk'  it." 

"  It  would  do  a  power  of  good." 

"  An'  ye're  worritin'  ower  the  drink?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  I'll  do  wi'oot  it." 

"It  isn't  yourself,  Cameron;  the  others  have 
no  restraint  whatever.  I'm  thinkin'  if  you'd  put 
your  foot  down,  man — you  have  the  law  on  your 
side — and  stop  the  brewin'  of  poison " 

"  I  will,"  declared  Sandy. 

As  Bruce  looked  into  the  blue  eyes  of  the  Cam- 
eron his  soul  trembled  with  thankfulness.    He  had 

100 


The  Blood  Lilies 

won  a  lieutenant  that  would  wage  strong  war 
against  the  legions  of  the  Devil.  Surely  he  had 
won  a  wage  by  his  efforts. 

"  May  God  give  you  strength,  Cameron;  you'll 
be  sorely  tried.  Just  preach  to  them  of  kindly 
love." 

"  And  keep  the  drink  frae  them,  Meenister," 
added  the  practical  body. 

"  You'll  be  reviled,  man,"  declared  Bruce,  ques- 
tioningly. 

"  The  breeds  are  gran'  at  that  game.  I'll  hae 
a  reputation  for  meanness  an'  meddlin'  that  would 
make  Judas  ashamed  o'  me." 

"  And  you're  willing  to  take  up  the  load, 
Sandy?" 

*'  Aye.  A  mon  couldna  boast  o'  much  love  for 
his  fellow  humans  an'  he  was  afeared  tae  help 
them  against  the  De'il." 

"  I'm  satisfied,"  the  minister  said,  simply. 

As  the  spirit  of  love,  of  faith,  of  conviction 
leapt  from  cross  to  cross  at  the  crucifixion  until 
the  thief  cried:  "  Lord,  remember  me  when  thou 
comest  into  thy  Kingdom,"  so,  from  the  crude  fur- 
press,  sanctified,  had  passed  the  spirit  of  love  un- 
til, that  night,  the  huge  Scot  cried  In  an  agony  of 
abasement:  "  Lord,  remember  me  to  the  helping  of 
these  poor  humans." 


lOI 


CHAPTER   XIV 

For  moons  Fort  Donald  lapsed  into  ordinary 
life.  The  furs  came  in,  and  Factor  Gourelot 
revelled  in  an  atmosphere  redolent  of  dog-bear 
and  castoreum  and  smoke-tanned  moose-skins  that 
had  the  pungency  of  burning  birch-bark. 

The  two  religions  lay  down  side  by  side  and 
slumbered  peacefully. 

A  neutrality  of  hate  existed  between  Descoigne 
and  Malcolm,  it  is  true,  but  it  also  was  as  quiescent 
as  something  that  is  seemingly  still  because  of  fierce 
velocity. 

The  winter  months  slipped  away  smoothly — 
dying  with  great  noise  at  the  end,  as  the  river  ice- 
jam  broke  with  the  thunderous  crash  of  a  shat- 
tered glacier. 

Then  it  was  indeed  spring.  The  sun,  full  of 
regret  for  the  days  of  neglect,  smiled  in  his  eager 
return,  and  loitered  through  many  hours  of  the 
twenty-four,  fighting  the  darkness  that  chilled  the 
yearning  earth,  and  ever  gaining  upon  the  foe. 

The  maple,  the  ash,  and  the  oak  drank  up 
from  the  brown  earth  a  warmer  heart's  blood, 

102 


The  Blood  Lilies 

and  shook  out  a  fairy  canopy  of  shade  in  re- 
turn. 

Like  kittens  the  anemones  opened  their  bright 
little  eyes  and  peeped  at  the  great  world  so  full 
of  strange  spring  noises,  of  twittering  birds  and 
burrowing  insects.  Even  the  "  deer-mice,"  long- 
eared  and  swift  of  foot,  squeaked  in  joy  as  they 
skurried  with  velocity  over  the  timid  flowers.  The 
wild  cherry  threw  perfumed  kisses  from  pale  lips 
to  the  wind  that  was  like  one  continuous  chinook. 
Each  night  the  stars  peeping  forth  looked  down 
upon  a  babe  flower-brother,  new  born  into  raiment 
of  white,  or  gold,  or  purple,  or  egg-blue;  for  the 
red  men  say  that  Manitou  gave  to  their  beautified 
prairies  a  flower  for  each  journey  of  the  sun  over 
its  sky  trail.  And,  in  vagary  of  fancy,  they  whis- 
per that  when  children  die  and  go  to  Manitou, 
carrying  gifts  of  flowers,  the  seeds  fall  back  to 
earth  and  bloom  again. 

Little  gray  shadows  flitted  through  the  woods, 
for  the  young  of  Wapoos  the  rabbit  were  every- 
where. 

And  In  the  sedge-bordered  lakes  the  mallard 
wove  her  nest  of  strong  grass,  and  the  loon  called 
imperiously  to  all  that  winged  in  travel  to  stay  in 
that  land  of  sweet-feeding. 

On  high,  from  his  harrow-shaped  troop,  the 
gray-goose  answered  the  loon  in  mocking  derision, 

103 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"A-honk,  a-honk,  a-honki  "  and  slipped  from 
sight  in  the  hiding  gray  atmosphere. 

And  great  revelry  was  on  with  the  gallinaceous 
grouse,  the  gray-mottled  prairie-chicken.  Their 
sand-hill  ballrooms  that  had  been  deserted  for  a 
year,  now  felt  once  more  the  pat  of  little  feather- 
legged  feet  as  they  gathered  in  crowds  and  strutted 
and  crouked,  and  spread  their  fine  feathers,  and 
danced.  It  was  pourtship ;  and  for  every  lass  there 
was  a  lover,  and  for  every  mated  pair  some  beau- 
tiful cover  of  shrub  thicket  where  their  nest  could 
be  hidden  away. 

Breasting  the  swift  waters  of  the  many  rivers 
that  cut  the  land  like  a  spider-web  swam  the  gold- 
eyes  —  silver-white,  and  with  the  rare  jewels 
through  which  they  watched  in  dread  for  that 
huge-jawed  cannibal,  the  ever-hungry  jack-fish. 

And  some  giant,  possessed  of  an  art  eye,  had 
stood  on  the  brow  of  every  hill  and  scattered  to 
the  winds  trinkets  of  gold  that  were  the  yellow 
blossoms  of  the  gray-leafed  Silver  Berry. 

The  prayers  of  Minister  Bruce  at  Buffalo  Neck 
for  the  dwellers  of  Fort  Donald  held  reward 
through  all  the  spring  and  early  summer.  No 
great  evil  had  come  to  them,  and  the  peace  of 
occupation  was  upon  them. 

In  September  the  fire  that  Bruce  had  pictured 
104 


The  Blood  Lilies 

lapping  at  their  souls  took  possession  of  the  post 
with  the  insidious  velocity  of  sunlight. 

Like  the  unrest  that  comes  to  horses  when  their 
fine  sensibility  knows  of  an  unseen  danger  was  the 
telepathic  knowledge  possessed  of  all  that  liquor 
was  at  hand.  Darkness  had  shielded  its  advent, 
and  no  tongue  told  of  its  coming  nor  of  its  spon- 
sors. A  gentle  hilarity,  like  the  smile  of  spring- 
time, pervaded  the  atmosphere. 

Behind  Fort  Donald  the  upreaching  hills  of  the 
Saskatchewan  lay  bathed  in  warm  sunlight  that 
picked  out  ruby  lights  from  crimson-leafed  maple, 
and  splashed  the  sheen  of  gold  from  yellow  and 
tawny  oak;  and  below  the  trees  were  the  coral 
beads  of  rosebuds,  and  saffron  plume  of  golden- 
rod,  and  clusters  of  white,  pearl-like  berries  droop- 
ing from  slender  stems  of  vermilion  willows, 
softened  by  the  silvered  leaves  of  wolf-willow. 
The  olive-leafed  buffalo  berry  wore  its  autumn 
aigrette  of  blood-red  jewelled  fruit.  Twined 
through  the  hills  an  emerald  necklace  of  green 
spruce  traced  the  sinuous  creep  of  Otter  Creek; 
and  in  the  jade-like  mantle  of  its  valley  were 
pencilled  marble-white  pillars  of  silken  birch. 

But  in  the  manifest  evidence  of  all  this  glory  of 
God's  creation  Fort  Donald  was  swift  drifting 
into  a  vortex  of  hopeless  inebriation.    Louis  Gou- 

105 


The  Blood   Lilies 

relot  had  slipped  a  little  way  into  the  temptation, 
the  others  swam  it. 

Guardian  Sandy,  looking  out  upon  the  dwellers 
in  the  land  of  relapse,  saw  that  the  present  instal- 
ment of  fire-water  was  a  thing  of  vast  proportions 
— that  meant  whiskey  smugglers;  and  they  were 
an  evil  pestilence  that  brought  worse  than  the 
most  dread  disease.  So  he  schooled  his  inherent 
desire  against  the  taint  of  spirits  that  was  in  the 
hazed  September  atmosphere,  and  stood  a  self- 
ordained  constable  of  his  fellow  post  dwellers. 

The  first  day  they  were  all  of  a  vast  brother- 
hood; the  second,  some  fell  asunder,  and  slept  at 
fitful  intervals;  the  third,  a  morose  ferocity  worked 
like  acrid  poison  into  the  minds  that  were  aflame 
of  untempered  alcohol. 

The  stern  face  of  Cameron  grew  fierce  in  its 
hardness  as  he  sat  and  wrote  the  record  of  man's 
folly  on  the  air  in  letters  of  petulant  smoke  from 
a  briar  pipe. 

When  he  spoke  to  Louis  Gourelot,  the  French- 
man blew  out  his  fat  cheeks  and  wrinkled  his  brow 
in  an  attempt  at  gravity.  Then  he  said,  "  Pooh !  " 
and  laughed  in  foolishness.  Three  tin  cups  of 
over-proof  whiskey  had  a  potency  that  Demos- 
thenes could  not  have  talked  into  subjection. 
Bruce's  philosophy  at  Christmas-tide  had  slipped 
from  the  volatile  Frenchman  like  snow  from  a 

1 06 


The  Blood  Lilies 

mountain-side.  For  a  time  he  had  felt  its  wisdom ; 
then  the  small  voice  became  hushed;  and  now  it 
was  but  one  of  the  many  buried  resolves. 

The  big  Scot's  deep-cet  eyes  rested  on  the  round, 
fat  face  for  an  instant,  and  its  vacuity  lashed  him 
into  heroic  effort. 

"  Factor  Gourelot,"  he  said,  "do  ye  no'  ken 
wha's  put  upon  us  by  a'  this  deeviltry?  There's 
ne'er  a  meenister  here — there's  no'  a  dhoctor — we 
hae  no  Mounted  Police — no  court;  naething  but 
jes'  oorsel's  tae  stand  atwixt  the  honor  o'  Fort 
Donald  an'  the  lowerin'  o'  its  people  tae  beasts." 

The  rotund  Frenchman  blinked  his  eyes  in  be- 
wilderment. Then  he  threw  forth  again  the  silly 
laugh.  "  M'sieu  Sandy,  you  spik — you  make  ze 
gran'  speech.     I  will  stan'  treat " 

"  Mon !  "  exclaimed  Cameron,  "  but  ye  no  ken 
— ^ye  no  ken;  Factor,  yer  a  dahm  fool!  But  I 
see  it  a'.  It's  for  me  tae  put  a  stop  tae  a'  this 
deeviltry.  Ye're  a  magistrate,  an'  I'm  the  police 
force,  constituted  by  the  powers — the  powers  o' 
reason." 

"  Ver'  gran',  ver'  gran',"  commented  Gourelot; 
"  ze  red  wine  have  make  you  spik,  eh,  Camer- 
on?" 

The  anger  that  was  in  Sandy's  solemn  eyes  van- 
ished and  a  look  of  pity  shone  there  as  he  turned 
his  back  upon  the  factor  and  passed  up  the  one 

107 


The  Blood  Lilies 

long  road  that  skirted  the  river-bank.  Half  way 
to  his  own  shack  was  Baptiste  Lerocq. 

Baptiste  could  walk — not  consistently,  with  ad- 
hesion to  a  preconceived  route,  but  still  he  could 
progress.  This  fact  gave  him  confidence,  and  he 
offered  to  fight  the  Scotchman.  In  addition  to  his 
complement  of  whiskey  he  carried  a  knife-thrust 
in  his  shoulder  that  had  been  given  him,  out  of 
sheer  gratuity,  by  one  of  his  fellow-revellers. 
Blood  trickled  from  the  wound  down  his  buck- 
skin shirt,  over  the  gaudy  silk-worked  flowers,  and 
hid  itself  in  shame  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

"Who  gie  ye  that,  mon?"  asked  Sandy,  tap- 
ping the  slashed  shoulder  with  his  finger. 

Baptiste  was  irrelevant,  truculent,  eloquent  in 
his  debased  vocabulary. 

"  Ye  poor  de'il !  "  continued  the  Scotchman, 
taking  no  notice  of  the  insect.  "  Tell  me,  mon, 
where's  the  speerit — tell  it  me,  mon,"  and  he 
grasped  the  little  Frenchman's  shirt-collar,  and, 
drawing  him  close  up,  peered  deep  down  into  the 
small  red-brown  eyes  till  the  illogical  Baptiste 
shrivelled  up  in  his  soul,  and  answered:  "  P'raps 
de  boys  is  down  wit'  Felix  Benoit." 

Without  answer,  and  still  clasping  Lerocq  by 
the  collar,  Sandy  strode  on  to  his  shack;  there  he 
washed  and  dressed  the  other's  wound. 

"  Now  awa'  tae  yer  ain  shack,  mon!  "  he  com- 
io8 


The  Blood  Lilies 

manded.  *'  I'm  tae  Benolt's,  mesel' ;  an'  if  ye  come 
nigh  the  place  I'll  smash  yer  heid.  Awa',  noo — 
make  haste !  " 

Taking  an  axe,  Sandy  started  for  the  abode  of 
Felix  Benoit. 

"  It's  the  will  o'  God— it's  the  will  o'  God  I  "  he 
kept  repeating  to  himself  as  he  swung  along.  "  I 
canna  help  it — I  canna  help  it;  God's  evidence  I 
maun  do  it.    The  poor  de'ils ! 

*'  Bruce  " — he  felt  the  minister's  spiritual  pres- 
ence— "  I  gied  ma  word  tae  stan'  against  the 
drink,  an'  I'll  dae  it — I'll  dae  it.  I'm  Noah  in 
my  wrath;  forbye  I'll  no  curse  the  poor  de'ils,  I'll 
save  them." 

Inside  the  shack  a  discordant  fiddle  was  inciting, 
in  jig  time,  the  revellers  to  dance;  exuberant  cries 
smote  the  air  through  a  window-sash  fringed  with 
broken  glass. 

"  Ma  God,  what  beasts !  "  moaned  Sandy,  as  he 
put  his  hand  to  the  latch  and  swung  wide  the  creak- 
ing door. 

On  a  rough  table  in  the  centre  of  the  shack's  one 
room  was  a  keg.  Frank,  and  Scot,  and  half-breed 
were  there  in  many  conditions  of  inebriation. 

As  Cameron  stood  in  the  doorway  and  gazed 
with  fierce  reproach  upon  the  drinkers  a  hush 
smothered  their  clamor — even  the  fiddle  stilled  its 
reluctant  squeak.     Two  men  who  had  been  step- 

109 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ping  maudlin  time  to  its  strains  leaned  against  the 
log  wall  with  its  mud  chinking  and  glared  at  the 
intruder. 

*'  M'sieu  Sandy,"  cried  a  Frenchman,  "  compli- 
ments.    Come  in.  Boy,  an'  wet  ze  whistle." 

**  Wha's  he  glowerin'  at?  "  snarled  old  Brown. 

"  I'll  no'  drink,"  declared  Sandy,  fiercely.  ''  I'm 
no'  sayin'  that  I  wouldna  tak'  a  drop  in  reason — 
whiskey  in  its  place  is  good,  mony  a  time  I've  been 
glad  of  It — but  It  wasna  meant  to  mak'  beasts  o' 
men." 

"  Wha's  a  beast?  "  cried  Brown,  fiercely. 

"  Oh,  lads,  lads,"  pleaded  Sandy,  suddenly  soft- 
ening, "  dinna  ye  ken  ye're  disgracin'  the  name  o' 
mon.  Would  ye  mak  Fort  Donald  ashamed  o' 
hersel';  will  ye  gang  forward  till  there's  murder 
done — hasna  Lerocq  been  knifed?  Will  ye  gie  it 
up,  an'  tell  me  wha'  de'il  run  It  In,  or  will  I  hae 
tae  smash  the  keg  tae  save  ye  all  frae  distruction?  " 

A  roar  of  angry  voices  answered  him. 

"Father!" 

Sandy  started  as  though  he  had  been  struck. 
It  was  his  son  Malcolm's  voice ;  the  father  had  not 
seen  the  young  Scot  in  the  dim-lighted  room. 

"  Ye're  here,  lad?  Oh,  ma  God !  a  beast  amang 
beasts !  " 

"  Ye  took  it  yerself,  father,  at  the  weddin',"  re- 
torted Malcolm. 

no 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  Aye,  lad,  but  Fm  ashamed  o'  it  noo.  An'  Fm 
sair  troubled  ower  this  de'il's  permit  that's  i'  the 
post." 

"  I  s'pose  M'sieu  Cameron  t'inks  we  are  all 
nichies,  an'  when  he  spik  don'  drink,  we  must  stop. 
M'sieu  Cameron  is  le  gran'  ogama." 

It  was  Felix  Benoit  who  thus  derided  Sandy; 
not  with  precision  of  language  but  with  maudlin 
breaks. 

In  a  corner,  between  the  cooking-stove  and  the 
wall,  crouched  the  Cree  wife  of  Felix  and  her 
daughter  Julie.  The  dumb  ache  of  dread  was  in 
the  eyes  that  had  been  schooled  to  subjection. 

"  An'  afore  the  women,  too,"  continued  the 
Scot;  "  an'  wi'  nichies,"  indicating  with  his  big 
brawny  hand  two  Indian-like  breeds. 

A  man  staggered  across  the  floor,  picked  a  tin 
cup  from  the  table,  and  filled  it  from  the  keg. 
Then  he  faced  big  Sandy,  and,  proffering  the 
tankard,  said,  "Ho,  Boy!  Drink  wit'  Joe  Des- 
coigne — he's  not  nichie." 

"  Awa',  mon;  awa',  mon!  "  answered  Cameron. 

"Drink,  M'sieu,"  repeated  Descoigne,  and  in 
his  voice  was  the  seductive  glamor  of  a  threat. 

An  animal  unrest  breathed  in  the  stifling  air  of 
the  reeking  shack;  it  half-sobered  those  who  held 
sway  over  their  senses.  All  who  were  not  asleep 
rose  to  their  feet  and  stood  deep  breathing  with 

III 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  tenseness  of  expectant  evil.  One  of  the  two 
men  must  back  down,  else  the  hazard  would  be  a 
life. 

"Will  M^sieu  drink?"  once  more  the  French- 
man asked,  holding  the  tin  cup  close  to  Cameron's 
nose.  The  fumes  of  the  spirit  smote  on  Sandy's 
nostrils  and  maddened  him.  The  sneering  face  of 
his  tormentor  was  thrust  close,  and  he  longed  to 
stretch  out  his  hand  and  grip  the  other's  throat. 
But  was  he  not  a  self-constituted  guardian  of  his 
fellow-men?  Had  he  not  come  there  to  prevent 
bloodshed — was  not  his  enmity  against  the  liquor 
and  the  outlaws  who  had  brought  it? 

"  Joe  Descoigne,"  he  said,  and  it  was  gravity, 
not  anger,  in  his  deep  voice,  "  dinna  worry  me.  I 
willna  drink,  an'  I  ask  ye  tae  help  save  the  guid 
name  o'  Fort  Donald.  Mon,  mon!  it's  sinfu' — 
it's  degradin'.  Listen  tae  reason,  mon;  spill  the 
wicked  thing  on  the  ground  an'  be  men,  not 
beasts." 

Perhaps  Descoigne  might  have  wavered,  but 
Felix  Benoit,  whose  mind  was  impossible  of  any- 
thing but  the  lash,  laughed  mockingly,  and  piped 
with  shrill  vindictiveness,  "  Beasts — and  nichies !  " 

"  Sacre !  "  muttered  Descoigne.  "  M'sieu  Sandy, 
drink,  or  marse!  " 

At  the  insulting  "  marse  "  (a  dog's  order  to  go) 
Sandy's  big  frame  quivered,  and  his  gaunt  eyes 

112 


The  Blood  Lilies 

blazed  with  suppressed  fury.  If  the  debauch  had 
not  deadened  Descoigne's  senses,  he  would  have 
hesitated  ere  he  stung  the  huge  Scot  again ;  but  he 
was  a  wasp,  an  adder,  an  instrument  of  evil,  and  in 
a  fit  of  uncontrolled  viciousness  he  dashed  the 
whiskey  across  Cameron's  face. 

The  tin  cup  had  not  clattered  from  his  foolish 
fingers  before  the  arms  of  Cameron  had  caught 
him  in  a  grasp  like  the  press  of  a  python.  His 
bones  cracked ;  his  ribs  pressed  upon  his  lungs ;  his 
throat  closed,  and  darkness  fell  upon  him.  A  knife 
that  he  had  half  drawn  sank  into  his  thigh  as  the 
fierce  muscles  of  the  great  Scot  compressed  him 
from  every  side. 

Noises  like  the  howl  of  a  wolf-pack  filled  the 
shack;  half-breed  and  Indian  and  Frenchman 
sprang  forward  to  pull  down  Cameron  as  wild 
dogs  might  have  reached  for  the  life  of  a  bull 
moose. 

"Stand  to  it,  father!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Malcolm  as  he  smashed  a 
way  to  the  Scot's  side. 

"  Come  on,  ye  black  devils,"  he  panted,  squar- 
ing himself.  "Take  that,  ye  hound!"  and  an 
Indian  shot  backward  and  fell  with  much  clatter  on 
the  hard  floor. 

"  Steady,  lad,  dinna  kill  onyone,"  admonished 
big  Sandy,  as,  with  a  twist  of  his  wrist,  he  sent 

113 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  limp  body  of  Descolgne  under  the  table.  Then 
he  swung  his  axe  aloft,  and  the  drunkards  shrank 
back  as  Its  blade  shimmered  a  vindictive  light. 

Down  came  the  axe,  and  a  thousand  splinters  of 
oak  showered  the  men  eager  of  fight;  also  a  cata- 
ract of  fire-water  bathed  their  faces  and  sank  Into 
their  greasy  clothes. 

"  IVe  slain  the  cause  o'  it  a\"  cried  Sandy. 
"  Dinna  strike  anyone,  lad,  they'll  no  felght  noo." 

He  was  right.  Under  the  table,  crushed  out  of 
his  foolish  bravado,  lay  Descolgne,  and  there  were 
only  the  splinters  of  wood  to  tell  of  the  prime  cause 
of  all  the  strife.  The  drunkards  were  cowed. 
Well  they  knew  that  once  roused  big  Sandy  was  a 
mountain-lion. 

Half-breeds  and  Indians  are  wondrous  akin  to  a 
wolf-pack  in  their  methods  of  warfare.  With  an 
outnumbered  foe  ferocity  stalks  as  bravery;  but 
when  the  pinch  comes,  when  acute  danger  grips  at 
their  throats,  they  slink  and  are  afraid.  Had  the 
Scot  wavered,  even  had  not  the  stalwart  son  stood 
at  his  back,  the  throng  might  have  torn  at  him  till 
he  fell. 

"  Tak'  the  Descolgne  to  his  shack,"  commanded 
Sandy  to  the  revellers.  "  Fm  thinkin'  he's  no 
hurted  bad,"  he  continued,  as  they  drew  the 
Frenchman  from  under  the  table. 

"  I'm  feared  not,"  commented  Malcolm,  putting 
114 


The  Blood  Lilies 

his  ear  close  to  Descolgne's  mouth  and  listening. 
"  But  you  give  him  his  bellyfull  of  fight,  father." 

The  battle  had  sobered  Malcolm ;  it  had  steadied 
all  of  them.  There  was  a  heavy  unreliability  in 
the  movements  of  some  as  they  stepped  away  from 
the  shack  of  Felix  Benoit,  carrying  Descoigne ;  but 
the  imp  of  debauchery  had  been  exorcised,  and  al- 
ready they  peeped  into  a  future  of  transient  regen- 
eration. 

"  Father,"  said  Malcolm,  as  he  walked  humbly 
at  Sandy's  side,  "  Fm  awful  ashamed  of  it.  The 
stuff  just  gripped  me." 

"  Dinna  talk  o'  it,"  commanded  Cameron. 
"  Fm  ashamed  o'  me  ain  rage — I  exceeded  me  au- 
thority." 

And  so  the  two  contrite  ones  passed  each  to  his 
own  abode  and  sat  brooding  over  the  sin-blazed 
trail  that  leads  from  conviviality  to  hatred. 


115 


CHAPTER    XV 

The  forceful  regeneration  with  which  the 
righteous  Scot  had  leavened  the  post  existed  for 
the  matter  of  one  night.  Next  day  the  resentment 
of  unappeased  thirst  governed  the  shiftless  dwell- 
ers of  Fort  Donald. 

Removed  from  the  subduing  presence  of  the 
wrathful  Cameron,  and  smarting  under  the  lingual 
castigation  he  had  administered,  they  talked  with 
bitterness  of  his  assumption  of  authority. 

Felix  Benoit,  restless  in  villany  as  a  copperhead 
snake,  sought  to  rouse  them  to  retaliation.  It  was 
his  money  that  had  purchased  the  liquor  from  the 
smugglers,  to  be  tin-cupped  out  at  a  huge  profit; 
It  was  his  Red  River  cart,  its  wheels  muffled  to  si- 
lence by  bagging,  that  had  brought  the  essence  of 
sin,  in  the  dead  of  night,  from  Sturgeon  Creek, 
twelve  miles  to  the  west. 

Yoked  to  him  in  villany  and  in  desire  for  re- 
venge was  Joe  Descoigne. 

Sandy  knew  that  if  some  drastic  measure  were  not 
taken  to  cut  off  supplies,  more  liquor  would  be  run 
in,  and  then  murder  outright  would  surely  come  to 

ii6 


The  Blood  Lilies 

someone.  In  a  way,  he  was  almost  helpless.  He 
was  not  a  constable;  he  was  possessed  of  no  au- 
thority to  go  out  and  arrest  the  whiskey-runners 
even  if  he  could  find  them.  Gourelot,  being  a  mag- 
istrate, could  create  him  an  officer;  but  well  he 
knew  that  not  one  citizen  except  Malcolm  would 
lend  a  helping  hand. 

To  Descoigne,  lying  in  his  shack  in  the  way  of 
rehabiliment,  came  Felix  Benoit  with  his  querulous 
complaint  that  the  accursed  Scot  was  possessed  of 
a  meddlesome  design  upon  their  free  right  to  get 
drunk — that  even  then  he  was  casting  about  for 
a  method  of  trapping  their  kind  friends  who  had 
brought  them  the  liquid  of  good-fellowship  from 
its  place  of  hiding  in  the  Devil's  Muskeg. 

Then  Descoigne  conceived  of  a  complex  retal- 
iation for  several  of  his  enemies.  Benoit  would  go 
to  Factor  Gourelot  and  make  confession  that 
Wolf  Runner  had  brought  the  liquor  to  Fort  Don- 
ald. Then  the  buffalo-headed  Scot  would  occupy 
himself  with  the  trapping  of  Wolf  Runner  while 
their  friends  rested  in  peace.  Also  would  the 
Indian  be  punished  for  having  assisted  the  Protest- 
ant outcasts  in  bringing  Minister  Bruce  to  Fort 
Donald.  The  matter  of  convicting  the  redskin 
was  easy  of  accomplishment;  he  was  already  one 
who  dealt  with  the  persecuted  Free  Traders.  Did 
not  Benoit  know  of  a  half-breed  who  would  swear 

117 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Wolf  Runner  had  brought  the  whiskey;  and  had 
not  Benolt  purchased  it  from  Wolf  Runner? 

So,  when  Big  Sandy  spoke  again  of  the  matter 
to  Gourelot,  the  factor  was  rich  in  obtained  knowl- 
edge. 

Mon  Dieu !  He  himself  had  trailed  the  Carca- 
jou to  his  hole.  Sacre !  The  outlaw  Wolf  Runner 
was,  out  of  doubt,  the  man. 

"  I  dinna  think  it,"  declared  Cameron.  "  It's 
no'  a  nichie  at  a' ;  it's  just  some  godless  pinto — a 
breed." 

But  Gourelot  was  positive;  Benoit  had  made  a 
clean  breast  of  it. 

''  I'll  no'  trail  after  a  herrln'-scent,"  declared 
Sandy.  "  Yon  deevil,  Felix,  Is  just  wantin'  us  to 
bell  the  wrong  cat." 

For  two  days  there  was  a  dead-lock;  It  would 
have  lasted  longer  but  for  the  scream  of  Captain 
Ball's  river-steamer  as  she  rounded  the  point  above 
Fort  Donald,  and  swung  to  its  mud-bank  to  rest  for 
the  night  on  her  way  to  Grand  Rapids. 

On  the  Saskatoon  was  Inspector  Lang  and  a  ser- 
geant and  two  constables  of  the  Mounted  Police. 
They  were  on  their  way  from  Edmonton  to  Win- 
nipeg. 

Strictly  speaking,  they  were  not  on  patrol  duty, 
being  due  at  their  destination  upon  a  fixed  date. 
The  Saskatoon  would  connect  at  Grand  Rapids 

ii8 


To  Descoigne,  lying  in  his  shack,  came  Felix  Benoit. 


The  Blood  Lilies 

with  the  Lake  Winnipeg  steamer,  and  they  should 
proceed  by  her  to  Winnipeg. 

Whiskey  smugglers  were  desirable  game  at  all 
times — their  suppression  was  the  chief  mission  of 
the  police ;  so  when  Factor  Gourelot  told  how  Wolf 
Runner  and  his  accomplices  had  set  fire  to  the  moral 
structure  of  Fort  Donald,  Inspector  Lang  became 
possessed  of  an  Itching  to  gather  In  the  offenders. 
It  would  be  a  feather  In  his  cap.  But  he  must 
catch  the  lake  steamer,  and  Wolf  Runner  was  at 
Vermilion,  a  hundred  miles  away. 

The  factor  explained  how  it  might  be  man- 
aged. By  hard  riding  the  police  could  make  Ver- 
milion the  second  night,  and  return  inside  of  the 
third  day  at  most.  He  would  put  them  to  Grand 
Rapids  in  a  "York  boat"  with  eight  oarsmen; 
they  would  go  down  the  swift  current  of  the  Sas- 
katchewan almost  as  fast  as  the  Saskatoon,  and 
would  certainly  catch  the  Lake  boat  before  the 
Saskatoon's  cargo  had  been  portaged  over  the  three 
miles  of  Grand  Rapids. 

At  any  rate.  Factor  Gourelot  would  guarantee 
the  lake  steamer  would  wait  for  them — '*  an'  also, 
M'sleu  Commandant,  you  will  have  your  prisoner." 


119 


CHAPTER    XVI 

'Resting  in  his  shack,  Joe  Descoigne  chuckled, 
hyena-like,  over  the  new  villany  he  had  set  afoot 
until  his  ribs,  a-sore  from  the  huge  Scotchman's 
rude  clasp,  twinged. 

But  when  Benoit  fled  to  him  with  the  news  of 
the  police  advent,  his  face  became  utterly  devoid 
of  mirth.  He  knew  Inspector  Lang  would  not  stop 
with  the  capture  of  Wolf  Runner;  Lang  had  the 
persistency  of  an  aggravated  bear.  Even  Wolf 
Runner,  if  taken,  might  divulge  the  hiding-place  of 
the  whiskey  smugglers,  for  he  was  sure  to  know 
of  it. 

When  the  white  mist-clouds  rose  from  the  Sas- 
katchewan that  night  and  came  up  over  the  tawny 
earth  that  was  still  warm  from  the  sun's  kiss,  and 
chilled  it  like  a  grave's  breath,  Descoigne  slipped 
from  his  shack,  pulled  his  aching  body  to  the  sad- 
dle on  his  cayuse,  and  passed  from  the  post  as  si- 
lently as  a  bird's  shadow  flits  over  the  prairie.  A 
mile  on  the  trail  he  dismounted,  and  stripped  from 
the  hoofs  of  his  blue  roan  the  bags  that  had  stilled 
the  earth's  echo.    Then  he  moved  faster,  and  was 

1 20 


The  Blood  Lilies 

gone  on  the  trail  to  the  Devil's  Muskeg — only  he 
avoided  the  path,  leaving  the  hoof-prints  of  the 
blue  roan  hid  in  the  prairie  lest  they  should  bear 
silent  witness  against  him. 

Behind,  an  hour  in  arrears,  trailed  the  police 
outfit  on  horses  furnished  by  Gourelot.  And  with 
them  rode  Sandy's  Malcolm  as  guide. 

Gourelot  and  the  others  had  all  but  convinced 
the  police  that  Wolf  Runner  was  the  head  of  the 
smuggling  gang;  but  Big  Sandy  contended  stoutly 
that  the  whiskey  men  would  be  found  in  the  mus- 
keg— in  his  own  time  they  had  been  there  before ; 
and  so  he  sent  Malcolm  for  the  double  purpose  of 
clearing  Wolf  Runner  and  capturing  the  actual  out- 
laws. 

With  the  hope  in  their  hearts  of  a  surprise,  the 
police  pounded  the  trail  hour  after  hour,  mile  upon 
mile,  until  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  forty 
miles  stretched  from  their  horses'  tails  to  the  old 
fort.  Then  for  two  hours  their  muscles  crept  back 
to  a  tenseless  rest.  At  seven  they  were  again  in  the 
saddles,  and  eating  at  the  trail ;  at  twelve  they  had 
reeled  off  another  thirty-five  miles. 

"  Halt !  "  commanded  Inspector  Lang.  "  Here 
is  water  and  feed  for  the  horses;  we'll  rest,  and 
strike  the  Indian's  tepee  when  he  has  come  home 
to  roost." 

At  eight  o'clock  the  iivt  shadows  were  slipping 

121 


The  Blood  Lilies 

almost  silently  through  the  shrouded  gloom  of  a 
poplar  bluff,  when  Malcolm  laid  his  hand  on  the 
police  captain's  arm. 

"Halt!"  whispered  the  officer,  and  as  they 
stood,  the  Scot  leaned  far  over  on  his  cayuse  and 
whispered:  "  Three  minutes  of  trail." 

The  captain  slipped  from  his  horse  and  passed 
from  man  to  man,  giving  a  smothered  order.  The 
sergeant  and  a  constable  dropped  to  the  ground, 
drew  the  reins  over  the  horses'  heads,  and  passed 
them  to  their  comrade,  who  still  sat  in  his  saddle. 
Malcolm  tied  his  cayuse  to  a  white-barked  poplar, 
and  the  four  men  went  forward  afoot. 

"  We're  close,"  muttered  Lang,  as  the  odor  of  a 
wood  fire  came  down  the  wind. 

In  ten  yards  a  glimmer  of  light  cut  the  dark- 
ness. Again  the  inspector  passed  a  whispered  or- 
der, and,  circling,  they  closed  on  Wolf  Runner's 
tepee  from  four  sides. 

As  they  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  only  the 
flap  of  a  lodge  between  them  and  their  quarry,  a 
dog  gave  a  long,  dismal  howl. 

The  captain  sprang  for  the  opening  with  eager 
haste.  In  its  doorway  his  charge  carried  him  into 
the  arms  of  Wolf  Runner's  ponderous  squaw  with 
such  fierce  impact  that  they  were  both  sent  sprawl- 
ing backward  In  the  recoil. 

The  sergeant  whipped  out  his  gun,  thinking  the 

122 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Indian  was  making  an  escape;  then  he  laughed, 
and,  brushing  by  his  chief,  stood  in  the  tepee. 
There  was  only  the  astonished  squaw  and  a  fright- 
ened little  lad  cowering  behind  her  dress.  They 
had  missed. 

From  a  sense  of  duty,  and  without  hope,  they 
questioned  the  Cree  woman,  who  had  subsided 
into  a  squat  attitude  of  complacent  vacuity. 

Vehement  invective  roused  her  to  a  constrained, 
"I  don't  know;"  her  small  unfathomable  eyes 
had  the  furtive  reticence  of  a  she-bear. 

Malcolm  was  anxious  to  come  into  possession  of 
Wolf  Runner,  with  the  idea  of  having  the  Indian 
clear  himself  by  leading  them  to  the  smugglers; 
he  was  sure  to  know  every  safe  spot  in  the  deadly 
muskeg. 

So,  speaking  to  Mas-ki-sis  in  Cree,  he  asked  him 
to  tell  them  where  his  father  was. 

"  Wolf  Runner  has  gone  to  make  the  hunt — to 
make  a  kill  of  mooswa,'*  the  boy  answered,  one 
hand  clutching  the  skirt  of  Mi-yah-tis. 

Malcolm  interpreted  the  boy's  answer.  The 
sergeant  sneered. 

"  The  kid's  givin'  us  the  double.  Captain,"  he 
declared.  "If  the  nichie's  not  here,  he's  with  the 
gang." 

"  Fm  thinkin'  we'd  best  pull  out  to  the  muskeg 
trail,  sir,"  suggested  Malcolm,  "  though  I  don't 

123 


The  Blood  Lilies 

believe  that  Wolf  Runner  is  with  them.  This  job 
is  most  like  Camoose  John's  trick.  I've  heard  the 
muskeg  is  an  old  nest  to  him — he  comes  up  the 
trail  from  the  south  by  Vermilion,  taps  Fort  Don- 
ald with  a  permit,  hidin'  the  bulk  of  it  in  the 
swamp,  an'  then  goes  on  to  Fort  le  Corne  an' 
Prince  Albert." 

"  Do  you  know  this  muskeg  trail?  "  asked  the 
inspector  of  Malcolm. 

"  Not  well.  The  lad  here  was  to  show  it  me 
when  I  went  through  one  time." 

*'  Faith,  we'd  best  jest  corral  the  kid,  sir,"  in- 
terrupted Sergeant  Heath.  "  The  cub'll  lead  us  to 
the  old  un,  p'raps." 

*'  I  think  that's  a  good  idea,"  replied  Inspector 
Lang.  ^'  Just  leave  a  man  here,  Sergeant,  to  trap 
the  Indian  if  he  comes  back.  We'll  take  the  boy 
and  push  on  to  where  the  trail  leads  into  the  mus- 
keg; we'll  bottle  them  up,  and  in  daylight  we'll 
make  the  kid  show  us  their  camp." 

When  Mas-ki-sis  understood  that  he  was  to  go 
with  the  police  he  was  sore  afraid,  and  clung  to 
Mi-yah-tis.  In  vain  Malcolm  explained  that  they 
meant  him  no  harm;  the  boy  did  not  believe  it. 
The  very  name  of  the  Mounted  Police  was  a  bug- 
bear. When  an  Indian  did  wrong,  was  he  not 
threatened  with  these  red-coated  braves  of  the  pale- 
face ;  did  not  the  Indian  mothers  frighten  their  chil- 

124 


The  Blood   Lilies 

dren  Into  good  behavior  with  the  goblin  of  the 
Mounted  PoHce  ?  It  was  all  very  well  for  the  oga- 
ma  to  say  that  they  meant  him  no  harm;  if  that 
were  so,  why  did  they  not  leave  him  with  his 
mother?  Perhaps  It  was  all  lies  about  the  smug- 
glers. Perhaps  they  had  come  for  his  father  be- 
cause of  the  time  Wolf  Runner  had  sought  to  lose 
Malcolm  Ogama  In  the  muskeg. 

When  Ml-yah-tis  understood  they  wished  to 
take  Mas-kl-sis  she  became  like  a  she-bear  that 
guards  her  young,  and  pleaded  with  Malcolm. 
They  could  take  her — she  would  show  them  the 
trail — she  would  even  lead  them  to  the  evil  white 
men  who  dealt  In  the  fire-water,  If  they  would  but 
leave  her  little  Otter,  Mas-kl-sis,  at  home. 

When  Malcolm  Interpreted  this,  the  sergeant 
laughed.  "  Faith,  It  would  take  two  bronchos  to 
tote  that  ugly  old  squaw." 

''  It's  nonsense,"  declared  the  inspector.  "  Tell 
the  boy  to  get  ready." 

Of  a  certainty  a  she-bear  was  about  to  be  robbed 
of  her  young;  Mi-yah-tis  saw  they  meant  taking 
her  little  Otter.  It's  altogether  likely  that  had 
there  been  but  one  white  man  he  would  have  suf- 
fered dismemberment  ere  he  succeeded  In  the  ab- 
duction. The  little  eyes  set  In  the  huge  face  of 
the  Cree  woman  blazed  with  fury;  they  had  to  use 
force  to  take  the  boy  from  her  strong  arms. 

125 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  The  ould  hag!  "  grunted  Sergeant  Heath,  as 
the  Ugly  One  sent  him  sprawling  with  a  clutch  of 
her  strong  fingers. 

It  was  Mas-ki-sis  who  begged  his  mother  to  de- 
sist; he  would  go  with  the  police  ogama,  for  he 
saw  that  trouble  would  surely  come  to  Mi-yah-tis. 

Leaving  a  constable  in  the  tepee,  and  taking  the 
boy,  the  police  went  back  for  their  horses  and 
travelled  on  to  the  bear's  deadfall. 


126 


CHAPTER    XVII 

At  midnight  they  camped  at  the  huge  wooden 
trap,  beside  a  little  stream.  Forty  yards  from  their 
camp  was  a  patch  of  open  prairie,  luxuriant  in  its 
pea-vine  and  buffalo-grass,  and  there  the  horses 
were  picketed  to  fill  the  stomachs  grown  gaunt  on 
the  hurried  trail.  No  fire  was  lighted ;  the  moon 
topping  the  aspen  bluff  behind  them  threw  a 
ghostly  light  over  the  log  pillars  of  the  bear-trap 
that  stood  like  a  gibbet  in  the  edge  of  the  muskeg. 

In  a  low  voice  Inspector  Lang  ordered  the  con- 
stable to  keep  a  watch  of  two  hours,  then  the 
sergeant  was  to  relieve  him.  Wrapped  in  their 
gray  blankets,  the  three  slept  with  the  silent  indus- 
try of  men  who  had  sat  in  the  saddle  while  their 
eyes  drooped  for  accustomed  rest. 

At  two  o'clock  the  constable  called  drowsily: 
"Sam I  Sam!" 

The  sergeant,  oblivious,  answered  not.     Once 
again :  "  Sam !  " 

"What's  the  matter,  man?"  a  Scotch  voice 
asked;  and  Malcolm  sat  up,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"  Touch  the  sergeant,  Scotty,"  ordered  the  con- 
stable. 

127 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"  Don't  wake  him,"  said  Malcolm,  compassion- 
ately; "  he's  miles  in  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground. 
I'll  take  the  watch.  I'll  just  have  a  smoke,  an' 
after  a  bit  I'll  rouse  him — let  him  sleep,  man." 

The  constable  hesitated.  He  would  like  to  give 
his  comrade  the  benefit  of  the  Scot's  devotion.  The 
deep,  steady  breathing  of  his  friend  touched  his 
heart,  and  he  whispered  back:  "  Don't  give  it 
away  to  the  captain,  then,  and  turn  out  the  ser- 
geant before  you're  caught;  keep  your  eye  skinned 
on  the  kid." 

Then  he  curled  up  in  his  blanket,  and  Malcolm, 
feeling  that  he  could  stay  awake  for  a  thousand 
years,  pulled  gently  at  his  pipe,  and  wandered  back 
in  spirit  to  Fort  Donald  and  Franchette. 

For  half  an  hour  he  was  very  much  awake. 
Each  little  snort  of  the  feeding  horses  as  they 
cleared  the  dust  from  their  nostrils  he  heard.  The 
whistling  whimper  of  a  coyote  cutting  through  the 
gloom  fell  upon  his  tense,  listening  ear. 

Presently  something  fell  and  struck  him  on  the 
ankle ;  tiny  sparks  bit  at  the  dry  leaves  as  he  looked 
down — it  was  his  pipe.  Most  certainly  he  had 
dozed  for  a  minute.  He  laughed  nervously  and 
stood  up,  stretching  his  long  limbs  to  start  afresh 
the  sluggish  blood.  The  crisp,  cold  night-air  blew 
the  stupor  of  sleep  from  his  nostrils,  and  he  sat 

128 


The  Blood   Lilies 

down  again  awake ;  he  could  even  hear  the  pull  of 
the  horses'  teeth  on  the  tough  prairie-clover. 

In  ten  minutes  a  pair  of  bright,  ferret  eyes  peer- 
ing from  an  old  smoke-yellowed  blanket  saw  in  the 
moonlight  the  Scot's  shaggy  head  droop  forward 
till  his  chin  rested  on  his  broad  chest.  A  small, 
slim-fingered  hand  stretched  forth,  picked  up  a 
stick,  and  tossed  it  close  to  the  dozing  figure's  moc- 
casined  feet.  The  man  who  slept  as  he  sat  never 
moved. 

Mas-ki-sis  waited  a  minute,  then  rustled  his  cov- 
ering. The  noise  was  as  the  stirring  of  leaves  by 
the  wind;  the  crouched  figure  was  a  statue — as 
silent. 

A  little  dark  shadow  glided  from  beneath  the 
yellow  blanket  with  the  silent  crawl  of  a  cat,  and 
was  lost  in  the  tangle  of  rose-bush  and  wolf- 
willow. 

High  in  a  tamarack  a  pair  of  big  round  eyes 
peered  from  a  saucer  face  down  at  the  small  some- 
thing that  crawled  through  the  grass.  The  sol- 
emn owl's  slow  mind  was  pondering  over  the  prob- 
lem of  whether  it  was  a  transient  supper  coming  to 
its  death,  or  an  accursed  tree-climber  after  his  owl- 
ship's  thin  carcass.  A  little  closer,  and  the  big 
eyes  that  see  at  night  knew  it  was  a  human ;  with 
a  whirring  cut  of  its  wings  the  bird  swooped  close 
to  the  crouched  sleeper  in  the  camp. 

129 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Malcolm  started.  "  By  the  Wallace !  "  he  mut- 
tered, upbraiding  himself,  *'  if  I  wasn't  asleep." 

His  disturber  perched  again,  laughed  back  at 
him  in  derision :  "  Whoo-hoo-hoo-o !  " 

"  Ye  needn't  jeer,"  muttered  the  Scot;  "  ye  did 
me  a  service.  Sergeant!  Sergeant!"  he  contin- 
ued, softly,  and  touched  the  sleeping  policeman. 

'*  All's  quiet,"  he  said,  as  the  other  took  his 
place. 

Sergeant  Heath  looked  in  the  dim  light  at  the 
yellow  blanket.  It  was  simply  an  involuntary  re- 
currence to  duty ;  there  was  no  thought  that  the  lit- 
tle Indian  would  seek  to  escape. 

"  The  kid's  asleep,"  he  confided  to  himself. 
"  Poor  little  devil !  "  That  was  because  he  had 
boys  of  his  own  at  home. 

He  sat  listening  intently.  Presently  the  thump 
of  a  hoof — a  little  cough  assured  him  their  horses 
were  feeding  in  content. 

Mas-ki-sis,  his  stomach  close  to  the  warm  earth, 
wriggled  like  a  lizard  for  ten  yards ;  then,  rising  to 
his  feet  and  hands,  he  stole  like  a  little  bear  through 
the  grass-patch  where  fed  the  horses.  In  his  child- 
mind  was  the  absorbing  thought  of  return  to  his 
mother. 

At  thirty  yards  he  stood  up ;  the  next  instant  he 
threw  himself  flat,  and  burrowed  in  the  pea-vine 
and  whispering  grass  and  white-tasselled  yarrow. 

130 


The  Blood  Lilies 

A  coyote  dashed  by  him  with  a  stifled  whine  of 
affright. 

The  boy's  heart  beat  at  his  breast  like  the  thump 
of  a  tom-tom;  its  noise  filled  his  ears — he  could 
scarcely  hear  the  slipping  creep  of  moccasined  feet 
on  his  trail.  Nearer  and  nearer,  the  tell-tale  whis- 
per of  the  crisp  grass  calling  louder  and  louder 
each  second  that  someone  sought  Mas-ki-sis. 
Would  the  seeker  miss  him  in  the  earth's  tangled 
cover?  The  someone  was  a  blood-hound,  coming 
with  unerring  certainty  to  his  hiding-place. 

With  a  gasp  the  boy  was  up  and  away  like  a 
frightened  deer.  But  his  little  legs,  all  too  short 
for  the  holding  maze  of  grass-growth,  failed  him. 
A  heavy  hand  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  and  once 
more  he  was  in  the  toils  of  the  police,  he  thought. 

As  he  whirled  about  a  greater  fear  came  to  him 
— it  was  not  one  of  the  men  he  had  fled  from.  He 
would  have  cried  out  in  his  terror,  but  strong 
fingers  clutched  him  by  the  throat,  and  a  voice 
whispered  in  Cree :  *'  Speak  not,  little  one,  or  I  will 
drive  this  knife  through  you.  Come  with  me  with- 
out noise,  and  you  will  not  be  harmed." 

Then  his  captor,  holding  him  by  the  arm,  led 
him  to  the  horses,  speaking  to  them  in  a  low,  sooth- 
ing voice  as  he  pulled  the  picket-pegs. 

The  three  police  horses  that  were  picketed,  and 
Malcolm's  cayuse  that  was  hobbled,  were  gathered 

131 


The  Blood  Lilies 

like  sheep.  Mas-ki-sis  was  placed  on  the  back  of 
one,  and  then  the  new  enemy  led  them  straight 
away  from  the  police  camp  and  into  a  growth  of 
poplar. 

As  they  travelled,  suddenly  a  horse  whinnied  a 
little  deeper  in  the  woods.  With  an  oath,  the  man 
hurried  forward  till  they  came  to  a  cayuse  tied  to 
a  poplar. 

As  the  horse-thief  wrenched  the  hackamore 
loose  and  swung  into  the  saddle,  Mas-ki-sis 
dropped  to  the  ground  the  two  black,  white-tipped 
hawk-feathers  that  were  in  his  braided  hair. 
They  would  be  a  message  to  Wolf  Runner  when 
he  came  looking  for  his  little  Mas-ki-sis,  as  he 
surely  would. 

Then  they  slipped  forward  at  a  walk,  the  stolen 
horses  hanging  back  to  the  leading  rein,  suspicious 
of  the  cayuse  they  followed. 

"  Marse!  "  the  horse-thief  commanded  back  to 
Mas-ki-sis,  and  the  frightened  lad,  obeying, 
kicked  his  heels  into  the  soft  flanks  of  the  broncho, 
and  the  troop  broke  into  a  trot  and  then  into  a 
gallop. 

The  boy  was  too  frightened  to  call  out ;  he  could 
only  grasp  the  horse's  mane  and  bend  low  to  es- 
cape the  sweep  of  a  branch. 

On  they  sped  over  a  jack-pine  hill  with  its  hold- 
ing sand,  through  an  hour's  length  of  moonlit  prai- 

132 


The  Blood  Lilies 

rie,  and,  skirting  a  poplar  bluff  that  was  too  thick 
of  growth,  splashed  through  Vermilion  Creek. 

As  they  raised  out  of  the  creek  bottom,  and 
topped  its  clay  bank,  the  horses  swerved  in  affright 
at  a  figure  lying  beside  a  smouldering  heap  of  red 
embers.  One  of  the  horses  with  a  snort  broke 
away  and  clattered  across  the  flat  prairie. 

As  the  sleeper  sprang  to  his  feet,  the  thief  with 
an  oath  rasped  sharp  spurs  up  the  flank  of  his 
mount,  and  the  stolen  troop  swept  on  into  the 
night,  leaving  the  startled  camper,  who  was  Wolf 
Runner,  looking  after  them  In  fear  and  astonish- 
ment. He  suddenly  turned  his  head  sideways  to 
listen;  he  could  have  sworn  he  had  heard  a  shrill 
call  for  help. 


133 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

As  the  beating  hoofs  grew  silent  in  the  distance, 
Wolf  Runner  heard  the  cayuse  that  had  broken 
loose  tramping  about  on  the  prairie.  The  Indian, 
soft-stepping  with  his  moccasined  feet,  went  toward 
the  animal.  As  he  approached  in  the  moonlight 
the  horse  snorted  and  plunged  forward  a  few  steps. 
His  head  was  low  hung,  and  seemed  anchored. 
The  loose-hanging  hackamore  had  tangled  about  a 
foreleg,  and,  thus  accidentally  hobbled.  Wolf  Run- 
ner caught  him.  Then  he  led  him  back  to  the 
camp-fire,  and,  hobbling  the  cayuse  more  effectual- 
ly, the  Indian  threw  wood  on  the  smouldering  coals. 

Over  his  pipe,  yielding  its  ''  harouge  "  incense, 
he  puzzled  out  this  apparition  of  many  horses.  The 
man  who  had  so  suddenly  appeared  and  disap- 
peared must  be  a  thief,  else  why  had  he  not  stopped 
when  one  of  his  bunch  was  lost?  Yes,  surely  it  was 
a  case  of  horse-stealing.  They  must  be  of  Fort 
Donald,  for  the  stealer  was  fleeing  from  that  di- 
rection. 

Perhaps  even  this  matter  of  the  stolen  horses 
had  to  do  with  the  traders  of  fire-water;  they  had 

134 


The  Blood  Lilies 

passed  his  solitary  camp  hours  before  trailing  to 
the  west.  Camoose  John,  the  smuggler,  wise  in 
the  propitiation  of  anyone  who  might  be  bribed  to 
a  silent  tongue,  had  given  the  Indian  a  bottle,  and 
he,  with  unusual  self-control,  still  had  a  part  of  its 
contents  saved  for  Mi-yah-tis. 

At  any  rate,  the  evil  spirits  were  not  making  bad 
medicine  for  Wolf  Runner,  for  he  had  made  a  kill 
of  mooswa,  and  his  back  was  tired  from  packing 
the  huge  hide.  Now  here  was  a  horse  put  into  his 
very  hands  to  carry  himself  and  his  load;  also  he 
would  surely  get  a  present  of  tobacco  or  powder 
for  returning  the  cayuse  to  its  rightful  owner.  He 
would  eat  and  hasten  to  his  tepee  and  talk  over 
these  things  with  the  Ugly  One. 

The  Indian  cut  a  branch  of  red  willow,  stuck  a 
sharpened  end  in  the  ground,  and  tortured  a  moose- 
steak  over  the  live  coals.  When  he  had  eaten  it, 
he  looked  longingly  at  the  contents  of  the  bottle; 
there  was  just  enough  for  Mi-yah-tis.  What  a 
glorious  thing  this  fire-water  was;  also  what  a 
devilish  thing.  How  big  and  strong  it  made  him 
feel;  and  how  it  burned  into  his  very  heart,  and 
mastered  him,  and  made  him  think  that  he  would 
sacrifice  everything  of  all  the  beautiful  forest  and 
prairie  for  one  long  continuous  enjoyment  of  it. 

He  held  the  red  glinting  fluid  between  his  eyes 
and  the  fire;  he  shook  the  flask,  and  it  was  full  of 

135 


The  Blood  Lilies 

leaping  devils.  They  smiled  at  him,  they  jeered 
at  him.  Why  were  they  masters  of  his  race  ?  Why 
was  it  that  his  people  were  slaves,  committing  self- 
murder  because  of  this  hot  water  that  burned  their 
throats,  and  was  found  nowhere  made  of  Mani- 
tou.  All  the  things  God  had  given  them  to  eat  and 
drink  were  good,  and  made  them  strong — this  was 
an  invention  of  the  palefaces,  for  the  red  man's 
destruction.  It  must  be  true  what  the  Ogama 
Bruce  had  said  in  his  Manitou  worship  at  Fort 
Donald,  that  a  curse  had  come  down  to  Wolf  Run- 
ner's people  because  of  the  fire-water.  But  he 
would  save  it  for  Mi-yah-tis,  there  was  just  enough 
— perhaps  there  was  just  a  little  more  than  enough. 
In  the  old  days,  when  the  Company  traded  them 
fire-water  for  buffalo-skins,  the  Ugly  One  had  not 
drunken  of  it  as  did  the  other  squaws ;  he  had  never 
seen  her  reeling  about  like  a  wounded  buffalo.  Yes, 
Mi-yah-tis  was  a  good  squaw. 

Wolf  Runner  raised  the  flask  to  his  lips  and 
lessened  the  portion  that  was  for  the  Ugly  One. 
Then  throwing  the  moose-pelt  over  his  cayuse's 
withers,  and  loosening  the  hobble,  he  clambered  to 
the  horse's  back  and  trailed  toward  Vermilion. 

Perhaps  Calf  Shirt  would  know  something  of 
the  stolen  horses;  so  Wolf  Runner  branched  from 
the  trail  that  led  by  the  bear-trap,  and  passed  by 
the  tepee  of  Calf  Shirt. 

136 


The  Blood  Lilies 

His  relative  knew  nothing  of  the  horses;  but, 
according  to  the  method  of  men,  the  portion  of 
fire-water  that  was  for  the  woman  most  utterly  van- 
ished in  the  tepee  of  Calf  Shirt.  Wolf  Runner  had 
meant  to  say  nothing  of  the  fire-water,  for  it  was 
the  squaw's;  but  was  It  not  a  chance  to  astound 
Calf  Shirt  with  the  glamour  of  his  magnificence? 
Besides,  as  Wolf  Runner  remembered,  the  Ugly 
One  thought  more  of  little  Mas-ki-sis  than  she  did 
of  the  heart-cheering  liquor. 

The  whiskey  that  was  still  in  the  flask  would  not 
have  affected  a  strong  white  man ;  but  the  two  red 
men  became  babbling  children  under  Its  influence, 
and  in  this  state  the  Indian  completed  his  journey 
to  Vermilion. 


137 


CHAPTER   XIX 

Mas-ki-sis's  captor  galloped  on  unchecked  by 
the  broncho's  defection  until  the  trees  commenced 
to  outline  a  little  against  the  eastern  sky  that  was 
now  losing  the  night  gloom. 

Suddenly  swinging  from  the  poplars  to  prairie, 
the  boy  saw  the  shadowy  forms  of  horses  feeding 
by  a  stream  which  ran  through  a  little  valley. 

The  next  instant  the  thief  reined  up  his  cayuse, 
and,  after  a  sharp  scrutiny,  whistled  through  his 
fingers.  From  the  hollow  of  the  little  valley  a 
whistle,  that  was  like  the  echo  of  his  own,  came 
up  the  hill  to  them. 

Then  the  horse-thief  pushed  forward  again  till 
he  came  to  two  men  who  guarded  a  wagon.  Mas- 
ki-sis  saw,  with  a  thrill  of  fear,  the  unwinking  eyes 
of  two  rifles  staring  at  him. 

"  What  th'  devil've  you  got?  "  one  of  the  men 
said,  addressing  the  horse-thief,  and  peering  into 
the  boy's  face. 

"  Plenty  broncho;  what  you  zink  dey  is?  " 

"  The  kid's  not  a  broncho,  is  he?  " 

For  answer  the  horse-thief  threw  himself  from 
138 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  saddle,  and,  leading  the  questioner  to  one  side, 
said:  "  When  I  pull  out  from  you  las'  night  an' 
hit  ze  trail  for  home,  by  Gar !  I  see  ze  police  horse. 
Dey  haf  put  ze  little  nichie  on  guard  over  ze 
bronchos.  Mon  Dieu !  but  dey  are  stupid  an'  lazy. 
Dey  sleep,  sleep,  while  ze  cub  is  watch.  I  am 
creep  up  on  ze  broncho.  Sacre!  I  see  dis  nichie. 
By  damn!  quick  I  have  him,  so  quick  he  make 
no  squeak.    I  mus'  take  him,  if  not  he  mak'  alarm." 

*'  Where  does  the  kid  belong,  Descoigne?  " 

"  How  I  know  me?  You  mus'  tak' — how  long 
you  keep  ze  broncho?  " 

"  Till  they're  done  up." 

"  Well,  when  you  cut  out  dese  horse,  let  ze  kid 
go.  I  t'ink  dey  find  dere  way  back  together.  Give 
him  grub." 

"What  about  th'  police,  Joe?" 

"  Ha,  ha !  I  have  set  ze  outfit  afoot.  Dey 
mus'  go  back — p'r'aps  they  have  catch  Wolf  Run- 
ner, I  don't  know — wit'out  horse  dey  can't  catch 
not'ings." 

"  Is  the  kid  on  to  you,  Joe?  " 

"  No.  An'  now  I  mus'  go  so  he  don't  see  me. 
Soon  be  daylight  I  t'ink." 

Mas-ki-sis  saw  his  captor  mount  and  strike 
across  the  prairie  to  the  north.  Descoigne  meant 
to  make  a  wide  detour  by  Metis  Mission  and  avoid 
the  Vermilion  trail. 

139 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  Indian  lad  did  not  know  what  new  evil  the 
fates  had  in  store  for  him;  but  somehow  he 
breathed  freer  when  the  horse-thief  had  gone;  in 
that  man's  presence  he  had  been  possessed  of  dread. 

Then  the  whiskey  smugglers  harnessed  to  their 
wagon  the  horses  of  Descoigne's  gift,  leading  their 
own,  and  started  to  the  west. 


140 


CHAPTER    XX 

Sergeant  Sam,  fighting  the  enthralment  of 
denied  sleep,  heard  the  whinny  of  Descoigne*s 
cayuse  as  the  Frenchman  fled  with  the  police 
horses.  It  started  him  into  wakefulness,  and  he 
listened  for  reassuring  sounds  from  the  grass  field 
where  their  steeds  fed.     It  was  strangely  silent. 

"  I  wonder  if  there^s  any  diviltry  up,"  he  mut- 
tered. But  wondering  over  the  problem  brought 
little  beyond  the  continued  grave-like  calm;  so  he 
slipped  quietly  from  his  sleeping  companions  and 
explored  the  patch  of  open  prairie. 

Not  a  horse  was  there. 

The  discovery  quickened  him  into  excited  move- 
ment; he  ran  here  and  there.  Once  he  careened 
headlong  over  yards  of  turf,  his  eager  feet  rudely 
snatched  from  under  him  by  an  entanglement  of 
dogberry.  Somehow  the  tumble  steadied  his  ruf- 
fled senses.  Beyond  doubt  the  horses  had  been 
stolen. 

He  hurried  to  the  camp  and  shared  this  won- 
drous discovery  with  the  chief;  also  enlarged  the 
store  of  his  knowledge  by  the  further  development 

141 


The  Blood  Lilies 

that  under  the  yellow  blanket  was  nothing  but 
grass-land — no  Mas-ki-sis.  The  fragment  of  Ind- 
ian humanity  had  stolen  their  horses  of  a  cer- 
tainty, and  Wolf  Runner  must  have  helped  in  the 
robbery. 

It  was  a  performance  close  cousin  to  a  miracle 
to  take  the  boy  from  under  their  noses  and  the 
horses  from  within  their  hearing. 

In  their  opinion  Wolf  Runner  had  achieved  to 
the  possibility  of  a  hanging;  but,  alas!  in  the 
meantime  he  had  set  them  afoot,  and  they 
were  like  mastless  boats  that  tossed  on  an  empty 
sea. 

Then  they  scurried  like  rabbits  up  and  down 
the  land,  through  the  tantalizing  gloom  of  the 
moon's  foolish  light,  and  found  nothing  beyond  in- 
numerable roots  and  countless  ant-hills  that  played 
ten-pins  with  their  hastening  legs.  They  might  as 
well  have  sat  in  the  camp  and  watched  for  the 
dawn — finally  they  did;  and  when  it  came,  with 
the  slow  solemnity  that  the  breaking  day  has,  they 
went  out  and  found  the  broad  trail  of  many  horses 
that  followed  their  leader. 

They  pursued  the  mocking  hoof-prints,  reviling 
themselves  inwardly  for  the  foolishness  of  it — for 
the  man  that  steals  horses  in  the  night  goes  beyond 
the  reaching  of  men  set  afoot.  And  presently 
they  came  to  the  trail  of  iron-shod  wheels  cutting 

142 


The  Blood  Lilies 

in  from  the  direction  of  the  muskeg,  and  they  knew 
that  this  was  Camoose  John,  his  mark. 

At  the  tree  where  Descoigne's  cayuse  had 
waited,  Malcolm  called  a  halt,  and  cast  about  the 
ground  for  something  that  might  disturb  the  utter 
emptiness  of  their  knowledge. 

"  It  was  that  devilish  kid,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
picked  from  the  earth  a  black  and  white  hawk- 
feather  Mas-ki-sis  had  cast  from  his  braided  hair. 
The  Scot  held  it  aloft  in  confirmation. 

"  And  here  Wolf  Runner  tied  his  cayuse,'' 
added  the  inspector,  "  and  they're  away  together. 
We  might  as  well  chase  the  rainbow  as  follow 
them  afoot,  and  we  might  as  well  go  back  again 
as  seek  for  the  smugglers.  Wolf  Runner  has 
given  them  warning,  and  they're  away,  with  our 
horses  to  help." 

Almost  mechanically  Malcolm  passed  along  the 
disturbed  trail ;  the  others,  empty  of  wiser  action, 
followed. 

Presently  the  Scotchman  knelt  down  and  ex- 
amined the  trail  carefully. 

"  I'm  botherin'  how  Camoose  got  wind  of  us 
at  all,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  the  little  nichie  gave  them  word  and 
they  got  out — they're  all  away  together." 

"  It's  not  that,"  answered  Malcolm.  "  They 
wasn't  together  here  at  all;  the  wagon-track  is 

143 


The  Blood  Lilies 

hours  older  than  the  horse-trail.  Don't  you  see 
the  spider-webs  in  the  wagon-rut  holdin'  lots  of 
dew;  and  the  hoof-prints  of  our  bronchos  has 
hardly  any  spider-web  or  dew  either.  There  was 
no  dew  fallin'  toward  morning.  I  was  awake  and 
know  that.  That's  why  the  horse-tracks  are  dry. 
And,  besides,  our  horses  was  gallopin',  and  the 
whiskey  outfit  trottin' ;  they  wouldn't  be  doin'  that 
if  they  was  together — they  couldn't  do  it.  No, 
they  got  word  long  before  the  kid  skipped  us, 
hours  before." 

"  It  must  have  been  Wolf  Runner,  though," 
commented  Lang,  "  or  the  boy  wouldn't  have 
gone  with  him." 

"  If  it  was  Wolf  Runner,  somebody  from  Fort 
Donald  took  word  to  him  that  we  was  comin'." 

*'Well,"  replied  the  captain,  "they're  gone  now, 
and  I've  got  to  go  back." 

Lang  had,  so  to  speak,  fulfilled  his  part  of  the 
contract  with  Factor  Gourelot,  all  but  the  tantaliz- 
ing variation  of  Wolf  Runner's  having  purloined 
their  horses  instead  of  allowing  himself  to  be  com- 
placently arrested. 

But,  brushing  aside  the  consideration  of  results, 
the  police  captain's  duty  was  paramount — he  must 
hasten  back  to  Fort  Donald  and  proceed  to  Win- 
nipeg. So  they  moodily  ate  a  light  breakfast, 
and,  packing  on  their  backs  the  saddles  they  had 

144 


The  Blood  Lilies 

so  lately  bestrode,  took  up  the  trail;  a  hundred 
miles  of  foot- work,  and  at  the  end  of  it  covert  joy 
awaiting  them  at  the  hands  of  the  aborigines  at 
Fort  Donald.  It  was  not  a  prospect  to  instigate 
hilarity,  and  the  quartette,  in  procession,  conducted 
themselves  like  pall-bearers. 

Cameron  was  loping  along  in  front,  possessed 
of  an  unspeakable  discontent;  in-toed  like  an  Ind- 
ian he  plodded,  the  very  earth  feeling  the  strong 
impact  of  his  resentment. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  crouched  down,  and 
peered  into  the  saucer-like  prints  of  hoofs. 

"  Someone's  been  hittin'  the  trail  since  our 
goin\"  he  said.  "  He's  not  long  ahead  of  us," 
he  continued,  in  monologue;  "it's  since  sun-up — 
there's  no  little  spider-webs  in  the  tracks." 

"  Must  be  Wolf  Runner,"  commented  the  ser- 
geant; "  for  gall  an  Indian  has  got  the  whole 
world  beat  flat." 

"  It's  pretty  rich,"  added  the  captain;  "  to  steal 
our  nags  and  ride  one  home  under  our  very  noses 
takes  the  bun." 

"You  can't  tell,"  objected  Malcolm;  "the 
nichies  are  always  scourin'  through  the  woods 
like  rabbits;  it  may  be  just  a  chance  traveller." 

The  mocking  hoof-prints  seemed  to  jeer  at  them 
from  the  trail  as  they  plodded  onward.  Even  had 
the  Indian  appeared  a  dozen  yards  ahead,  waiting 

145 


The  Blood  Lilies 

to  give  them  the  laugh,  they  would  not  have  been 
surprised. 

Five  hundred  yards  short  of  Vermilion  the 
cayuse  tracks  left  the  trail  and  were  almost  lost  in 
the  matted  turf  of  the  unbeaten  prairie. 

"A  new  deviltry!  "  said  the  captain,  speaking 
low.  "  We  must  split  up.  Sergeant,  you  and 
Cameron  trail  the  horse,  and  we'll  go  on  to  the 
tepee.  Don't  follow  the  cayuse  over  half  a  mile, 
we  haven't  much  time  to  waste  now." 

*'  There's  no  use  of  stalking  the  tepee,"  he 
added  to  the  constable,  as  the  two  proceeded;  "  if 
Wolf  Runner's  there,  White'll  have  nailed  him." 

At  the  lodge  Captain  Lang  called,  "  Constable," 
and  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a  gun  ready  for 
emergencies. 

Through  the  slit  of  the  tepee  a  man  emerged, 
and  Constable  White  stood  erect  and  saluted. 

"Well?"  queried  the  captain. 

*'  He's  in  there,  sir,"  answered  the  constable, 
thrusting  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"Wolf  Runner?" 

The  policeman  nodded. 

"When  did  become?" 

"  An  hour  ago,  sir — walked  right  in  on  me  as 
I  was  at  grub-pile.    He  was  packin'  a  jag " 

"Drunk?"  queried  the  captain,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

146 


The  Blood  Lilies 

"Pretty  near,  sir;  he  had  an  empty  bottle,  so 
I  guess  the  liquor  give  out  before  he  got  para- 
lyzed/' 

**  Was  the  boy  with  him?  '* 

"  No,  sir;  ain't  you  got  him?  " 

Even  as  they  talked  Malcolm  and  the  sergeant 
came  up  with  the  stolen  horse. 

"  We  found  him  hobbled  in  a  dip  In  the  prairie, 
sir,"  reported  Sergeant  Sam. 

"  Bring  out  the  nichie  till  I  question  him,"  com- 
manded Lang. 

To  the  captain's  query  the  Indian  explained  how 
he  had  come  by  the  horse. 

The  tale  was  such  a  tax  on  their  credulity,  such 
an  evident  tribute  to  the  stupidity  of  a  white  man 
in  general,  that  the  Inspector  laughed  in  derision. 

But  where  was  Mas-ki-sis  ?  Wolf  Runner  did 
not  know;  he  even  asked  the  police  officer  for 
knowledge  of  the  boy;  they  had  taken  him — 
where  was  he? 

Again  the  Inspector  laughed;  the  whole  thing 
was  too  patent.  Wolf  Runner  had  communicated 
some  signal  to  the  little  imp  as  they  slept  at  the 
bear's  deadfall — even  as  the  sentry  slept.  Then 
the  two,  father  and  son,  wolf  and  cub,  had  run 
off  their  horses,  the  kid  had  carried  them  on  to 
the  whiskey  smugglers,  and  Wolf  Runner,  circling 
wide  of  their  camp,  had  ridden  In  haste  back  to 

147 


The  Blood  Lilies 

his  own  tepee,  perhaps  to  get  grub  and  speak  with 
his  squaw,  meaning  to  clear  out  again.  But  Con- 
stable White,  of  whom  he  did  not  know,  had 
ambushed  him.  In  the  clatter  of  the  horse-steal- 
ing probably  Mas-ki-sis  had  forgotten  to  tell  his 
father  of  the  redcoat  in  the  tepee. 

Everything  was  against  the  Indian.  Why  did 
he  circle  the  trail  as  a  man  hunts  a  moose — why 
did  he  not  ride  straight  up  to  his  tepee  instead  of 
caching  the  horse,  if  his  tale  were  true — why  was 
not  Mas-ki-sis  there  with  his  mother  if  he  had 
not  run  off  the  horses?  Did  not  Wolf  Runner 
come  home  saturated  with  the  atmosphere  of  his 
liquor  friends?  Bah!  they  were  losing  time. 
Their  luck  was  not  all  out  though,  for  had  they 
not  trapped  the  chief  villain?  Onward  to  Fort 
Donald;  not  with  celerity,  to  be  sure,  but  still 
with  fair  speed  because  of  the  long-striding  Scotch- 
man. They  left  the  saddles  with  Mi-yah-tis  to  be 
sent  for.  A  saddle  was  all  right  between  one's 
legs  and  on  a  good  horse,  but  on  one's  back  for 
the  matter  of  a  hundred  miles  it  was  a  thing  to 
be  dispensed  with.  The  solitary  cayuse  was  made 
a  party  to  the  pilgrimage. 

As  the  mixed  lot,  those  of  the  redcoats,  the 
big  Scot,  the  swarthy  Indian,  and  Inspector  Lang 
athwart  the  knock-kneed  cayuse,  moved  out  in 
solemn  defile,  a  pair  of  whiskey-jacks  stared  at 

148 


The  Blood  Lilies 

them  In  amazement  from  the  poles  of  a  meat- 
drying  rack.  The  blue-gray  birds  even  followed 
the  wondrous  procession  for  a  mile,  offering  de- 
risive chirps  of  disapprobation. 

They  made  Fort  Donald  in  two  days,  with  feet 
crying  out  in  anguish  because  of  the  incessant 
activity. 

Sergeant  Sam  had  an  extended  vocabulary  of 
Celtic  reproach  for  people  he  disapproved  of,  but 
long  before  the  white-washed  shack  that  was  the 
Hudson  Bay  fort  glimmered  on  their  vision 
he  had  exhausted  his  rhetoric,  and  walked 
in  sullen  resentment  as  silent  as  Wolf  Run- 
ner. 

"  My  God !  the  heathen — the  damnable  pa- 
gan !  "  Malcolm  had  iterated  over  and  over 
again;  "there's  no  trustin'  a  yellow-skinned  hu- 
man. Yon  time  of  the  race  he  was  for  drownin' 
me  in  the  Devil's  Lake,  then  he  was  a  friend  of 
mine;  and  the  now  Tm  a-ridin'  Shank's  mare  a 
hundred  miles  because  of  his  deviltry.  My  con- 
science, the  heathen!  " 

The  advent  of  the  wayfarers  was  like  the  com- 
ing of  a  circus.  The  post  dwellers  thronged  to 
the  fort  and  gazed  in  speechless,  unholy  rapture 
upon  their  humiliation.  To  be  set  afoot  by  the 
men  they  had  sought  was  a  retribution  beyond 
anything  the  men  of  Fort  Donald  had  prayed 

149 


The  Blood  Lilies 

for.  Descolgne  and  Benoit  were  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  exalted  triumph. 

That  the  police  had  captured  Wolf  Runner, 
who  was  as  innocent  of  the  whiskey-running  as 
big  Sandy  himself,  was  superb.  Had  ever  such 
happiness  come  to  Fort  Donald — was  it  not  a 
place  favored  of  the  gods? 

Gourelot  put  on  the  magisterial  air  of  a  chief- 
justice  when  the  Indian  was  brought  before  him 
for  a  preliminary  hearing. 

And  the  evidence!  Mon  Dieul  who  could 
doubt  the  evidence  ?  Also  the  police  must  proceed 
in  the  York  boat,  for  the  steamer  had  gone. 

The  Indian  would  go  with  his  captors  to  Win- 
nipeg. Their  evidence  would  insure  him  a  long, 
long  rest  from  villany — a  protracted  residence  at 
the  "  Queen's  Hotel " — which  was  Stony  Moun- 
tain jail. 

Gourelot  had  drunken  of  the  smuggled  fire- 
water, but  how  was  he  to  know  whence  it  came? 
Also  was  he  not  now  like  a  reformed  inebriate, 
more  bitter  than  one  who  had  never  fallen  ?  And 
horse-stealing!  Perhaps  they  would  even  hang 
Wolf  Runner. 

So  the  police  drifted  down  the  Saskatchewan  to 
Grand  Rapids,  and  in  all  Fort  Donald  there  was 
only  one  man  of  strong  discontent — big  Sandy. 
"  I  dinna  believe  it;  I  dinna  believe  it,"  he  re- 

150 


The  Blood  Lilies 

peated  to  Malcolm.  "  It's  yon  blue  wolf,  Des- 
coigne,  that's  brewed  this  uncanny  thing;  but  Til 
hae  him  yet — I'll  hae  him  yet,  or  I'm  no'  a  Hie- 
landman." 

"  I'm   afraid  Wolf   Runner  stole  the  horses, 
father,"  declared  Malcolm. 


151 


CHAPTER   XXI 

In  the  west  no  one  goes  afoot  to  the  commit- 
ment of  villany,  therefore  the  man  who  takes  to 
himself  the  unearthing  of  evidence  seeks  first  the 
horse. 

Logically  enough,  big  Sandy  concluded  that  if 
Descoigne  were  at  the  bottom  of  this  new  mis- 
chief his  cayuse  would  have  been  an  impressed 
accomplice.  In  fact  the  Scot's  eye  had  been  tak- 
ing notes  while  the  police  were  out  chasing  the 
gray  goose.  He  saw  that  Felix  Benoit  went  no 
more  to  Descoigne's,  therefore  the  Frenchman 
must  be  away  or  dead.  Sandy's  luck  was  so  bad 
just  then  that  the  latter  possibility  he  quickly  dis- 
missed from  his  mind. 

There  were  reasons  why  he  should  not  visit 
Joe's  house  and  satisfy  his  curiosity.  In  that  land 
of  self-preservation  a  man's  shack  was  most  em- 
phatically his  castle,  and  a  much  smaller  bulk  than 
Sandy's  big  frame  would  have  proved  easy  for 
Descoigne  at  a  hundred  yards.  Also  had  the  bat- 
tered Frenchman  sent  a  friendly  notice,  with  his 

152 


The  Blood  Lilies 

compliments,  that  he  would  shoot  the  spiller  of 
their  liquor  if  he  kept  not  off  the  grass. 

For  two  days  after  the  police  fared  forth  to 
the  prairie  Sandy  failed  to  locate  his  enemy's 
cayuse;  on  the  third,  just  at  the  little  foot-hills 
behind  Fort  Donald  where  the  purple  prairie- 
clover  grew  shoulder  to  shoulder,  he  came  upon 
the  blue  roan  ineffably  dispirited  from  the  lethargy 
of  overwork. 

"  I  kenned  it,  mon,  I  kenned  it,''  Sandy  re- 
peated to  himself,  as  he  fished  from  capacious 
pockets  a  bait  of  precious  oats. 

Sandy  could  have  outwitted  a  wolverine,  and  he 
soon  had  the  tired  cayuse  in  the  witness-box  of 
his  close  scrutiny. 

The  horse  was  guiltless  of  shoes,  but  the  fore- 
hoofs  carried  tiny  holes  and  the  hollowed  soles 
which  go  with  feet  that  have  been  lately  shod. 
The  nigh  hoof  was  worn  to  the  extent  of  a  full 
day's  travel  shoeless;  from  the  off- foot  the  iron 
crescent  had  been  taken  but  lately. 

"It's  vera  clear,"  Sandy  muttered;  "he  just 
dropped  a  shoe  yonder,  an'  wi'  the  cunning  o'  a 
serpent  pulled  the  other  since  he  came  back.  I'd 
gie  twenty  skins  for  this  saxpence-worth  o'  iron, 
an'  forty  for  yon  lost  one." 

As  he  trudged  back  Cameron  pieced  it  out  in 
his  mind.     Felix  Benoit,  who  was  brother  in  sin 

153 


The  Blood  Lilies 

to  Descolgne,   and  also  post  blacksmith,   would 
have  pulled  the  shoe. 

Now  a  half-breed  throws  away  nothing  but 
money,  and  horseshoes  were  rare  as  jewels,  so  be- 
yond doubt  Felix  would  have  carried  this  asset  to 
his  little  blacksmith  shop.  Big  Sandy  must  be- 
come possessed  of  that. 


154 


CHAPTER   XXII 

All  day  the  whiskey  smugglers  trailed  with 
feverish  haste,  eating  into  the  western  horizon 
with  wondrous  speed.  The  horses  they  urged 
with  brutal  persistency  were  not  their  own,  and 
to  be  cast  off  at  night.  Also  the  outlaws  raced 
for  a  big  stake — their  liberty,  perhaps  their  lives. 

To  little  Mas-ki-sis,  perched  in  the  wagon, 
dumb  from  the  recurrence  of  so  much  adventure, 
his  black  eyes  possessed  of  the  hunted  look  that 
comes  of  habit  to  a  hounded  deer,  the  captors 
were  most  kind ;  even  pity  was  in  the  hearts  of  the 
rough  men  for  the  cub  they  took  so  far  from  his 
home. 

When  the  western  sky  was  ablaze  with  the  red 
light  of  autumn  evening  they  outspanned  and 
cooked  a  hurried  meal.  Then  the  leader,  Ca- 
moose  Jack,  talked  with  much  dreaded  seriousness 
to  Mas-ki-sis.  They  hobbled  the  stolen  horses, 
bidding  the  boy  rest  there  all  night  beside  the 
feeding  animals,  and,  in  the  morning,  take  them 
back  over  the  trail. 

The  outlaws  spelled  for  two  hours;  then  they 
155 


The  Blood  Lilies 

put  in  their  own  horses,  leaving  food  for  the  lit- 
tle Indian.  Camoose  patted  the  boy's  shoulder 
and  swung  to  his  seat  on  the  wagon;  the  horses 
stretched  to  the  traces  with  the  foolish  rush  of 
bronchos,  and  the  load  of  whiskey  was  started. 
In  ten  yards  the  driver  threw  his  horses  almost 
on  their  haunches,  and,  turning  to  his  companion, 
said:  "  Dakota,  weVe  a  pair  of  nichies.  I'm  up 
against  it  good  and  hard;  the  kid  ain't  got  no 
cover — just  stake  him  with  this,"  and  he  handed 
Dakota  a  gray  regulation  blanket. 

Then  the  outfit  slipped  forward  again  and  be- 
came obliterated  shadows  in  the  big  waste  of 
darkened  prairie. 

Mas-ki-sis  sat  crouched  like  a  badger  listening 
to  the  rumble  of  the  wagon-wheels  that  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  until  he  was  left  alone  with  the 
tired,  feeding  horses — a  wee  lost  waif  of  hu- 
manity. 

As  the  animals  moved  in  their  feeding,  he 
moved  too.  He  had  the  Indian's  full  dread  of 
the  dark.  Mah-chee  Manitou,  or  Wie-sah-ke- 
chack,  with  his  evil  habit  of  changing  into  an  ani- 
mal, would  most  assuredly  find  him — perhaps  he 
himself  would  be  turned  into  a  prairie-chicken  or 
a  gopher  before  morning.  The  hobbled  beasts 
were  friends;  he  clung  to  them  as  to  brothers. 
When  their  stomachs  were  rounded  and  taut  as 

156 


The  Blood  Lilies 

tom-toms  from  the  lentil  grass,  they  stretched 
themselves  wearily  on  the  earth  and  slept  with 
asthmatic  gasps. 

Mas-ki-sis  crept  close  to  the  pinto  he  had  ridden 
the  night  before  and  nestled  against  his  back.  As 
he  huddled  there,  the  cayuse  reached  his  nose  over 
and  put  the  small  human  through  a  mental  cate- 
chism. It  was  a  suspicious  investigation,  for  the 
pinto  was  about  to  trust  himself  to  the  dangers 
of  a  sleep.  Mas-ki-sis  put  his  little  hand  up  and 
stroked  the  ill-formed  nozzle  of  the  cow-hocked 
beast.  The  pinto  gave  a  sigh  of  content — of 
trust,  and  let  his  head  of  archaic  design  droop 
lower  and  lower,  till  his  chin  rested  on  the  soft 
pillow  of  the  much-grassed  prairie,  and  slept  in 
the  abnegating  thought  that  at  his  back  was  the 
wise  protection  of  a  human  friend.  The  rest- 
fulness  of  the  cayuse  deadened  the  acute  fears 
of  the  boy.  No  wolf  would  tackle  him  with 
the  prospect  of  combat  with  the  hard-hoofed 
steeds  of  the  prairie;  even  evil  spirits  kept  aloof 
from  horses.  A  gentle  warmth  stretched  out 
from  the  pinto  and  lulled  the  little  waif  to 
sleep. 

Once  a  harsh-voiced  loon  floated  like  a  lost 
spirit  over  the  sleeping  group,  and  its  whistling 
lament  startled  Mas-ki-sis  into  open-eyed  fear. 
But  it  was  only  a  loon,   a  silly,  wandering  loon 

157 


The  Blood  Lilies 

with  its  useless  cackle  of  despair,  and  he  slept 
again. 

An  hour  before  daylight  the  boy's  bed  com- 
menced to  fall  asunder;  the  pinto  was  admonish- 
ing his  little  friend  that  he  meant  to  arise  and 
garner  more  of  the  luscious  grass. 

As  the  horses  fed,  Mas-ki-sis  ate  of  the  bannock 
and  fried  bacon  the  whiskey  man  had  given  him. 
At  the  first  flush  of  gray  he  unshackled  the  horses' 
legs,  the  pinto's  last,  and  clambered  to  his  roach- 
backed  spine;  then,  rounding  up  the  little  bunch, 
he  started  over  the  back  trail.  All  day  he  rode, 
with  one  rest  at  noon  for  grass-eating.  Well  on 
in  the  afternoon  the  two  horses  that  had  been  fol- 
lowing, feeling  in  their  now  empty  stomachs  the 
glamour  of  the  clover  and  wild  oat  and  pea-vine, 
commenced  to  loiter  by  the  way. 

Mas-ki-sis  pushed  on.  In  the  evening  he  came 
to  the  poplar  to  which  Descoigne's  cayuse  had 
been  tied.  The  boy  slipped  from  the  pinto's  back 
and  searched  for  the  feathers  he  had  dropped. 
They  were  gone.  Had  his  father,  Wolf  Runner, 
found  them?  Surely  not,  else  he  had  come  seek- 
ing for  his  boy.  Ah!  there  was  one,  blown  a 
little  into  the  bluff  by  the  wind.  With  boyish 
thoughtlessness  Mas-ki-sis  let  go  the  hackamore 
and  ran  to  the  feather.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  it 
up  the  glint  of  a  polished  horseshoe  caught  his 

158 


The  Blood  Lilies 

eye.  The  Indian  instinct  told  him  It  belonged  to 
the  man  who  had  stolen  him  and  the  horses.  It 
was  caught  In  a  root  that  had  wrenched  it  from 
the  hoof  of  the  thief's  cayuse.  He  gave  a  little 
whoop  of  delight. 

At  that  Instant,  like  a  thousandfold  echo  of  the 
boy's  cry,  a  wolf's  howl  came  cutting  its  way  up- 
wind from  the  forest. 

Left  to  himself  the  horse  had  grazed  a  little 
along  the  trail,  and  as  the  wolf-cry  fell  upon  his 
ear  he  raised  a  startled  head,  the  big  eyes  wild  in 
affright. 

Mas-ki-sis  raced  for  the  hackamore;  his  head- 
long rush  completed  the  pInto's  distress,  and  he 
fled  In  terror,  clattering  back  over  the  trail  by 
which  he  had  come.  Mas-ki-sis  realized  that 
nothing  would  stop  the  animal  until  he  reached 
the  two  of  his  own  kind.  The  boy,  set  afoot  as 
decisively  as  the  police  force  had  been,  gazed 
ruefully  at  the  sky  that  was  fast  losing  its  light, 
and  thought  of  the  miles  of  darkened  trail  that 
stretched  between  him  and  his  mother.  How 
warm  the  tepee  would  be ;  how  cold  and  dismal  the 
poplar  bluff  that  fringed  the  bleak  muskeg  would 
prove.  But  to  tramp  alone  for  hours  and  hours 
over  the  trail  that  at  night  was  in  the  possession 
of  wolves  and  coyotes,  and  evil  spirits,  and  surly 
muskwa,  the  bear — it  was  dreadful. 

159 


The  Blood  Lilies 

His  moment  of  indecision  was  cut  short  by  a 
fierce  bark  dying  away  into  a  drawn-out  howl;  he 
had  almost  forgotten  the  wolves.  Their  cry 
sounded  nearer  this  time;  they  must  have  winded 
him  and  the  cayuse.  He  looked  up  at  the  trees; 
he  might  perhaps  seek  safety  in  one  of  them.  The 
poplar  limbs  were  so  slight  he  would  surely  fall 
out  in  the  night.  If  he  could  only  cache  himself 
high  on  a  rude  platform,  as  he  had  seen  Wolf 
Runner  cache  the  meat  of  a  moose. 

Ah,  he  had  it — the  bear's  deadfall.  His  father 
had  covered  its  top  with  limbs  once  and  made 
a  cache  of  it.  It  was  close  by.  His  blanket 
had  fallen  from  the  pinto's  back;  picking  it  up, 
still  clinging  to  his  horseshoe,  Mas-ki-sis  scuttled 
away  for  the  log  haven  of  safety  as  fast  as  his 
little  legs  could  carry  him. 

With  the  blanket  corner  in  his  teeth,  he  climbed 
a  log  post  and  was  safe;  all  but  the  evil  spirits. 
Safe  from  the  wolves,  his  boy's  mind,  made  tense 
by  fear,  reverted  to  the  ever-present  demons  of  the 
air,  the  wicked  spirits — surely  they  abode  in  that 
dark  muskeg. 

From  the  poplar  forest  came  the  clanging  bell- 
notes  of  wolves  In  chase ;  they  were  stealing  up  the 
boy's  scent  like  ghouls.  Now  he  could  see  shad- 
ows twisting  in  and  out  amongst  the  trees  In  the 
gathering  gloom.     They  were  working  closer  and 

i6o 


The  Blood  Lilies 

closer  in  circling  paths — wary,  but  relentless. 
Now  they  sat  on  their  haunches  almost  beneath 
the  deadfall — three  of  them.  Their  hungry  eyes 
pierced  the  gloom  with  covetous  glance ;  their  nos- 
trils tickled  with  the  tantalizing  odor  of  some- 
thing cached.  Why  were  the  good  things  of  life, 
the  flesh  without  power  of  combat,  always  left 
high  and  safe  on  those  degraded  log  stands? 

Mas-kl-sis  could  hear  the  sniffing  of  his  audi* 
ence;  the  soft  shuffle  of  their  cautious  feet,  muffled 
by  the  yielding  grass,  as  they  paced  In  Impatient 
longing  back  and  forth,  round  and  round,  and  up 
and  down — even  at  times  springing  against  the 
smooth,  barkless  posts,  as  a  dog  essays  a  tree  In 
quest  of  prey. 

A  little  farther  back  In  the  forest  a  coyote, 
jackal-like,  whimpered  plaintively.  Why  did  not 
his  big  brothers,  the  timber  wolves,  make  a  kill? 
— perhaps  there  would  be  something  for  him  at 
the  finish.  Another  coyote  echoed  his  carping 
lament,  and  another — until  there  seemed  a  cordon 
of  them,  keeping  back  from  the  wolves,  lest  they 
themselves  should  furnish  the  feast. 

Mas-kl-sis  pulled  the  blanket  over  his  head,  as 
a  train-dog  or  a  fox  sleeps  with  his  tall  across  his 
nose.  There  was  a  slight  solace  In  the  presence 
of  his  fierce  attendants,  their  din  might  keep  away 
the  muskeg  demons. 

i6i 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Once  the  boy  uncovered  his  head  quickly; 
surely  he  had  heard  a  voice.  As  he  listened  he 
heard  it  again,  a  plaintive  whip-poor-will,  as  the 
bird  of  sorrow  sailed  with  soft-rustling  wing  over 
the  trail  that  was  possessed  of  the  hungry  ones. 

Down  on  the  darkened  earth  were  round,  gleam- 
ing balls  of  fire,  the  lurid  yellow-green  eyes  of  the 
eager  timber  wolves.  He  blotted  them  out  with 
his  blanket  again,  and  tried  to  sleep. 

Sometimes  the  animals  snarled  and  snapped  at 
each  other;  sometimes  Mas-ki-sis  heard  the  soft 
suck  of  a  wolf's  breath,  as,  panting,  he  jumped  at 
the  posts;  and  again  they  would  yap  with  impa- 
tient, gasping  barks,  and  from  the  outer  edge 
would  come  an  answering  chorus  of  whistling 
moans  from  the  waiting  coyotes. 

For  the  space  of  many  moons  Mas-ki-sis  lived 
through  the  night.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though 
something  must  have  happened  to  the  sun — surely 
the  daylight  should  have  come  long,  long  ago. 
Many  times  he  peeped  stealthily  from  his  blanket 
at  the  blinking  stars  that  were  so  all-unconscious 
of  the  wolves'  wrath. 

At  last  the  stars  were  surely  fading  and  creep- 
ing away  to  sleep;  the  trees  were  stepping  a  little 
apart  from  the  blurred  mass  of  dark  shadow  they 
had  been.  Yes,  day  was  coming.  Fan-like  blades 
of  pink  and  gold  shot  quivering  into  the  blue-gray 

162 


The  Blood   Lilies 

vault  from  which  the  stars  were  now  lost;  the 
night,  harborer  of  his  enemies,  was  fleeing  to  the 
forest  before  the  Sun-God.  Small  wonder  his 
tribe's  enemies,  the  Blackfeet,  had  been  sun-wor- 
shippers. In  his  heart  was  a  hymn  of  joy.  Even 
the  gray  mist  that  had  chilled  him  was  brushed 
aside  like  a  veil  by  his  friend  the  Sun-God. 

The  wolf  leader,  big  and  gaunt,  fearful  of  the 
light,  had  grown  restless.  Twice  he  trotted  a  lit- 
tle into  the  poplar  bluff  and  barked  to  the  two 
pups  to  follow  him;  but  they,  eager  in  their  hun- 
ger and  foolish  in  their  youth,  still  prowled  close 
to  the  bear-trap. 

Mas-ki-sis  watched  his  enemies  in  apprehension. 
He  thought  that  with  the  coming  of  day  they 
would  have  gone;  but  the  old  dog  had  almost 
given  up  trying  to  coax  the  others  away,  and  was 
now  back  again,  his  gray,  scraggy  muzzle  sniffing 
furtively  at  the  small  human  on  the  deadfall. 

The  boy  saw  him  suddenly  whip  about,  point 
his  nose  up  the  wind  that  was  rustling  the  gold- 
tinged  leaves  of  the  poplars,  and  stand  tense  as  a 
statue,  the  crest  of  black-tipped  hair  down  his 
spine  erect.  Floating  on  the  morning  air  came 
the  sound  of  something  rushing  through  the 
forest. 

With  a  "  Yap,  yap,  yap !  "  eager  of  chase,  the 
dog-wolf  bounded  into  the  air  and  was  gone,  the 

163 


The  Blood  Lilies 

two  pups  at  his  heels.  Mas-ki-sis  knew  not 
whether  it  was  a  moose  or  a  black-tail  that  had 
led  his  enemies  away.  It  mattered  not,  they  were 
gone. 

He  slipped  from  his  loft  and  ran  through  the 
poplar  bluff,  and  out  into  the  smiling  prairie  that 
was  coral  strewn  with  the  red  buds  of  seeding 
wild-rose. 

How  like  a  saffron  smoked  moose-skin  the  plain 
was,  with  its  wealth  of  gold-stained  shrub,  and 
grass,  and  leaf,  the  boy  thought,  as  the  gloom  of 
the  forest  fell  from  his  spirits. 

And  beyond,  not  so  far  now,  was  his  mother, 
Mi-yah-tis.  She  would  no  doubt  think  him  dead, 
eaten  by  the  wolves,  or  changed  into  a  forest 
dweller  by  Wie-sah-ke-chack.  Perhaps  the  police 
ogama  would  have  told  her  that  he  had  been  car- 
ried off  by  horse-thieves. 

He  quickened  his  pace  with  these  thoughts,  and 
ran  till  something  thrust  a  knife  in  his  side — the 
pain  was  just  like  that. 

The  trail  cut  through  a  small  arm  of  the  mus- 
keg, and  as  the  boy  trudged  slower  because  of  the 
pain,  he  saw  all  through  the  deep-mossed  flat  a 
myriad  fleet  of  fairy  boats.  On  every  shrub  and 
bunch  of  reed-grass  were  gossamer  spider-webs, 
boat-shaped,  their  holding  strands  turned  to  white 
sails  by  the  clinging  dew.    It  was  a  beautiful  sight, 

164 


Mas-ki-sis  (the  Indian  boy). 


The  Blood   Lilies 

and  Mas-kl-sis  smiled,  for  his  heart  was  light  be- 
cause of  his  escape. 

For  three  hours  his  feet  beat  longingly  at  the 
lengthened  trail.  As  he  dipped  into  a  hollow 
from  over  a  hill  covered  with  gnarled,  black- 
spotted  jack-pine,  he  saw  a  wide  figure,  made  evi- 
dent by  the  fierce  splendor  of  a  crimson  shawl, 
coming  through  the  grass  with  heavy  vigor.  The 
joy  of  heaven  came  to  the  pagan  mind;  it  was  the 
advent  of  the  sweetest  being  in  all  his  world — 
his  mother. 

The  poor  old  heart,  torn  of  fear  and  disconso- 
late waiting,  tried  beyond  silent  endurance,  had 
ached  and  ached,  until  its  chords,  vibrating  with  a 
nameless  dread,  had  caught  up  the  call  of  a  de- 
serted child  somewhere  off  in  the  waste  of  forest 
and  prairie,  until  the  mother  could  find  no  peace 
except  in  unreasoning  search,  and  had  wandered 
down  the  trail  of  expectancy  in  the  faint  hope  that 
the  prairies  might  yield  up  her  little  Mas-ki-sis, 
and  living. 

The  boy  raced  down  the  slope  with  a  whoop  of 
joy.  Even  the  ponderous  squaw  quickened  into  an 
awkward  trot  when  she  saw  through  the  old, 
bleared,  strained  eyes  the  darling  that  she  had 
given  up  as  lost. 

How  she  crooned,  and  wept,  and  laughed,  and 
stroked  the  black,  matted  hair,  and  held  in  her 

165 


The  Blood  Lilies 

big,  strong  arms  the  little  cub;  and  for  a  time 
the  evil  that  had  come  to  Wolf  Runner,  and  the 
dreary  hours  that  she  had  sat  alone  In  her  tepee, 
faded  from  her  mind,  and  she  laid  her  copper 
cheek  against  the  little  face  and  was  happy. 

Presently  the  mother  made  a  sling  of  her  shawl, 
just  as  she  had  In  the  old  days  when  Mas-kl-sis 
was  a  tiny  cub,  and  told  her  boy  to  ride  it  on  her 
broad  back.  He  laughed;  he  wasn't  tired;  but 
with  strong  hands  she  swung  him  to  her  shoulder, 
the  twist  of  the  shawl  across  her  forehead,  and 
trudged  on. 

Mas-kl-sis  humored  her  for  a  little,  patting  the 
gray-streaked  head.  When  they  had  gone  half 
a  mile  he  cried  that  she  was  hurting  him;  and 
when  the  mother  stopped,  he  slipped  to  the  ground, 
and,  taking  her  hand,  they  plodded  back  to  Ver- 
milion and  the  lodge  that  was  devoid  of  Its  master. 

There  Mas-kl-sis  was  made  into  a  prince,  a 
mighty  chief ;  the  big  leather  sack  of  pemmican  was 
brought  forth,  and  a  sustenance  for  three  men 
chopped  from  its  brick-like  holding.  And  as  it 
melted  in  the  pan,  the  gentle  odor  of  saskatoon 
berries  tickled  the  eager  hunger  of  Mas-kl-sis 
until,  unchecked,  he  chased  a  morsel  with  foolish 
fingers  and  burnt  them. 

And  when  he  was  like  a  ball,  or  a  bear-cub  that 
had  harvested  without  stint  the  luscious  white  sll- 

i66 


The  Blood  Lilies 

vcr  berries,  he  was  rolled  in  a  blanket,  and  Mi- 
yah-tis  listened  to  his  tale  of  adventure. 

He  had  grown  old  in  two  days,  and  already  had 
thought  out  that  the  man  who  had  stolen  the 
horses  was  from  the  way  of  Fort  Donald,  and  the 
horseshoe  was  to  find  him. 

The  eye  of  Mi-yah-tis  flashed  at  sight  of  the 
iron  circlet.  And  her  little  Otter  had,  out  of  wis- 
dom, preserved  this  thing.  Yes,  the  thief  was 
surely  of  the  Company's  post — they  alone  in  that 
territory  put  metal  to  the  feet  of  their  cayuses. 
From  where  had  come  all  this  wisdom  to  the  little 
Otter? 

But  poor,  tired  Mas-ki-sis  was  even  then  asleep ; 
and  the  Ugly  One  sat  and  tried  to  unravel  the 
tangle  of  happenings  that  had  come  into  her  sim- 
ple life.  Her  mind  worked  with  the  reluctant 
vagaries  of  a  Red  River  cart.  Trouble  of  this 
sort  had  been  subject  for  Wolf  Runner's  solving. 
She  had  chopped  the  wood,  and  scraped  with  the 
strong  moose-shank  the  hides,  and  tanned  them  in 
a  lung-choking  smoke.  She  had  carried  water, 
and  made  the  fire,  and  cooked  the  food.  And  now 
the  hours  and  hours  of  mental  strain  produced  lit- 
tle out  of  all  the  exertion ;  Wolf  Runner  had  been 
taken  for  another's  crime — taken  to  the  post. 

Simply,  like  the  gray  light  of  a  breaking  day, 
the  thought  that  she  too  should  go  to  the  post  to 

167 


The  Blood  Lilies 

be  near  him  came  to  her.  Mas-ki-sis  knew  what 
the  others  did  not — even  Wolf  Runner  did  not 
know. 

Yes,  she  would  go.  This  determination  rested 
her  mind;  she  drifted  back  in  contemplation  of 
the  bereft  misery  of  the  past  two  nights. 

The  dream  of  the  medicine-man  at  the  naming 
of  Mas-ki-sis  had  been  a  red-faced  goblin. 

The  Blood  Lilies  were  blossomed  into  red  lakes 
out  on  the  prairie ;  a  hundred  times  she  had  peered 
forth  from  her  tepee  in  apprehensive  expectancy 
of  seeing  the  moon  sullen  in  red  anger. 

Its  silvered  peace  had  reassured  her.  The  lame- 
ness of  disaster  would  not  come  to  Mas-ki-sis  even 
at  the  time  of  the  Blood  Lilies  until  the  red  moon 
fell  upon  them,  as  in  the  medicine-man's  dream. 

Besides,  Mas-ki-sis,  the  Lame  One,  was  yet  to 
be  a  brave. 

The  soothing  grace  of  thankfulness  lulled  to 
sleep  the  tired  spirit  of  the  Ugly  One,  and,  with 
an  arm  across  the  boy's  shoulder,  in  gentle  guard, 
the  two  rested  side  by  side. 


i68 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

In  the  morning  Ml-yah-tis  went  to  Calf  Shirt 
and  borrowed  his  cayuse,  for  in  Calf  Shirt's  tepee 
was  her  sister. 

This  equine  patriarch  had  been  pack-animal  for 
both  families  for  moons  since  the  unlucky  day  that 
Wolf  Runner's  outfit  of  dogs  had  essayed  close 
communion  with  short-tempered  muskwa.  The 
bear  had  utterly  demolished  Wolf  Runner's  trans- 
port department. 

It  was  noon  when  the  Ugly  One  reached  back 
to  Mas-ki-sis.  Then  the  tepee  was  struck,  a  travois 
made  from  Its  poles,  and  all  the  worldly  goods  that 
were  Wolf  Runner's,  even  the  lodge  itself,  put  on 
the  wheelless  vehicle,  and  with  the  boy  atop,  the 
Cree  woman,  her  slow  mind  still  troubling  over  the 
crushing  problem,  drove  the  languorous  cayuse 
toward  Fort  Donald.  Mas-ki-sis  would  tell  the 
police  ogama  all  the  truth. 

It  was  easy  to  know,  If  one  had  wisdom  such  as 
the  ogamas  had,  when  anyone  made  straight  talk, 
and  spoke  not  with  a  forked  tongue.     Also  her 

169 


The  Blood  Lilies 

wise  little  Otter  had  the  horseshoe.  Not  any 
cayusc  that  Wolf  Runner  could  have  got  from 
Calf  Shirt  would  have  iron  on  its  hoofs. 

And  the  police  ogama  was  a  servant  to  the  Great 
White  Mother,  and  was  not  of  the  Company;  so, 
when  Mas-ki-sis  spoke  true.  Wolf  Runner  would 
be  given  back  to  her. 

Plodding,  plodding  in  mind  and  body,  hiding 
the  torturing  doubts  behind  a  stolid  face,  the  faith- 
ful of  Wolf  Runner  came  to  the  post  that  was 
empty  of  the  man  she  sought.  Only,  a  mile  back 
on  the  trail,  which  was  a  good  place  to  camp,  she 
left  Mas-ki-sis  and  the  cayuse,  and  went  in  alone, 
because  of  her  forest  cunning. 

Yes,  Wolf  Runner  had  gone  with  the  police 
ogama  to  Fort  Garry;  everybody  knew  that. 
Those  who  spoke  of  it  when  the  Cree  woman  lis- 
tened knew  not  whom  she  was,  and  said  perhaps 
they  would  hang  Wolf  Runner,  or  perhaps  he 
would  only  be  shot.  But  it  was  as  true  as  the 
everlasting  continuance  of  the  Company  that  he 
would  never  return. 

Mi-yah-tis  went  back  to  Mas-ki-sis,  and  together 
they  put  up  the  lodge.  The  Ugly  One  put  some 
red  streamers  on  willow  sticks  to  keep  away  the 
anger  of  Mah-chee  Manitou. 

She  did  not  know  because  of  reading  that  all 
things  come  to  them  that  wait;  but  she  waited, 

170 


The  Blood   Lilies 

telling  no  one  what  Mas-ki-sis  knew,  nor  of  the 
horseshoe. 

Mi-yah-tis  had  never  been  in  Fort  Donald  be- 
fore, so  she  was  known  of  no  one.  She  was  just 
an  old  squaw  that  fished  and  made  moccasins,  and 
perhaps  she  had  a  husband  who  was  away  with 
some  trading  outfit,  or  perhaps  he  was  dead.  Any- 
way, she  was  but  an  old  squaw,  that  would  go 
away  presently  as  unnoticed  as  she  had  come. 

Had  Malcolm  chanced  upon  Mi-yah-tis  he 
might  have  recognized  her,  or  he  might  not. 

Each  time  the  Ugly  One  came  into  the  post 
she  heard  something.  Once  somebody  said,  vin- 
dictively, that  if  Wolf  Runner  were  hanged  or 
shot  it  would  serve  him  right.  Even  if  he  were 
not  a  horse-thief,  he  was  most  certainly  a  fool. 
Had  he  not  helped  the  heretical  unbelievers  against 
the  little  priest,  and  was  not  the  factor  a  good 
Catholic,  and  was  he  not  the  sole  arbiter  of  all 
their  fortunes?  Was  not  he  also  a  magistrate, 
with  the  redcoats,  the  police,  to  do  his  bidding? 
What  chance,  then,  had  Wolf  Runner  to  escape 
some  ill- fortune  after  helping  in  the  downfall  of 
Pere  Lemoine? 

Many  little  things  that  the  Ugly  One  heard 
confirmed  her  in  the  habit  of  a  still  tongue.  When 
Wolf  Runner,  who  was  a  brave,  and  could  speak 
out,  had  been  bundled  away  like  a  snared  gopher. 


The  Blood  Lilies 

what  chance  for  her,  a  slave  of  a  workwoman,  to 
speak  ? 

Was  it  not  true,  this  saying  of  her  people,  the 
Crees,  that  all  the  palefaces  spoke  with  a  forked 
tongue,  and  had  in  their  hearts  only  hate  for  the 
redmen  ?  For  eight  moons  Mi-yah-tis  had  thought 
with  favor  of  the  tall  moneas — surely  he  was  an 
ogama — who  had  held  Wolf  Runner  from  death 
in  the  blizzard;  and  then  he  had  come  like  a  thief 
with  the  redcoats  and  taken  little  Mas-ki-sis,  and 
next  her  brave,  and  left  her  tepee  desolate. 

Long  ago,  when  the  Crees  had  lived  under  their 
great  chief,  Sweet-Grass,  one  who  had  trouble 
would  go  to  him  and  speak,  and  the  truth  would 
always  obtain  justice.  And  the  Ugly  One  had 
heard  that  the  great  White  Mother  of  the  pale- 
faces was  like  Sweet-Grass.  Mi-yah-tis  knew  that 
she  could  not  speak  with  the  White  Mother;  but 
she  had  heard  her  people  in  the  tepees  talking  that 
at  Fort  Garry  was  the  White  Mother's  husband 
or  brother,  or  perhaps  it  was  only  her  son. 

Many  days  it  took  the  reluctant-working  mind 
of  Mi-yah-tis  to  formulate  even  a  visionary  plan. 
If  Mas-ki-sis  could  tell  the  true  tale  of  the  horse- 
stealing to  the  Queen's  Minor  Chief,  who  was 
really  the  Governor,  at  Fort  Garry,  then  surely 
Wolf  Runner  would  be  sent  back  home. 

At  first  this  seemed  impossible  of  attainment; 
172 


The  Blood  Lilies 

but  gradually,  day  by  day,  it  came  into  the  Ugly 
One's  understanding  that  Mas-ki-sis  might  go  on 
the  big  fire-canoe  to  Fort  Garry  and  bring  Wolf 
Runner  back.  The  boy  must  go  alone,  it  would 
take  so  long  to  earn  money  for  the  going  of  both. 


173 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

As  the  beaver  harvests  his  poplar-bread  for  the 
winter,  and  with  scarcely  more  of  reasoning,  the 
squaw  of  Wolf  Runner  accumulated  funds  for  the 
achieving  of  this  tremendous  purpose.  She  tanned 
the  three  moose-skins  that  had  been  fresh  at  the 
going  of  her  brave,  and  sold  them  to  Factor  Goure- 
lot;  but  it  was  a  long  round  to  the  realization  of 
coin.  From  the  factor  she  got  nothing  but  trade; 
so  she  took  tobacco  and  silk  handkerchiefs,  and 
these  were  sacrificed  at  half  their  value  for  money 
to  some  of  the  post  dw^ellers. 

Mas-ki-sis  built  a  little  weir  in  Otter  Creek  and 
caught  gold-eye,  dore,  and  jack-fish;  and  he  snared 
prairie-chicken ;  and  all  these  beyond  their  own  eat- 
ing were  given  in  trade. 

Higher  up  Otter  Creek,  where  cut  banks  of  blue 
shale  notched  its  tortuous  bed,  grew  spruce  and 
tamarack;  and  there  wapoos,  the  hare,  had  his 
many  run-ways.  Here  Mas-ki-sis  put  his  cunning 
snares  of  deer  sinew,  that,  when  loosened  by  push 
of  silly  wapoos's  empty  head,  snatched  him  high  in 
the  air  till  he  strangled  to  death  as  though  he  had 

174 


The  Blood  Lilies 

been  a  fierce  murderer.  On  the  back  of  wapoos 
was  the  fat  of  rich  autumn  feeding;  and  in  the 
tepee  that  was  devoid  of  its  master  the  pot  was 
kept  forever  and  ever  bubbling,  to  the  end  that 
the  little  brave  might  eat  and  grow  strong  to  the 
reclamation  of  his  father. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  fur  of  wapoos  was  nearly 
prime,  so  Mi-yah-tis  sun-tanned  the  pelts,  wove 
them  into  a  warm  robe,  and  traded  it  to  Factor 
Gourelot  for  beads  and  gaudy  silk  threads. 

With  indescribable  industry  she  worked  mocca- 
sins and  fire-bags ;  and  these,  too,  won  a  small  pit- 
tance of  currency. 

By  the  dim  light  of  her  poplar-wood  fire  the 
Ugly  One  toiled  night  after  night  beading  a  pair 
of  beautiful  moccasins  for  the  boy  as  he  slept. 

It  was  a  quaint  little  touch  of  sentiment  for  one 
so  heavy  of  face  as  Mi-yah-tis.  He  was  to  know 
nothing  of  them  until  the  day  of  his  going;  then 
his  pride  in  their  beauty  would  lighten  the  sadness 
of  his  heart  at  leaving  his  mother. 


175 


CHAPTER   XXV 

While  Mas-ki-sis  and  his  mother  waited  for 
the  steamer,  hiding  the  horseshoe  with  the  jealous 
care  that  a  white  owl  takes  over  its  two  rounded 
^ggs,  Joe  Descoigne's  evil  mind  began  to  worry 
because  of  this  same  piece  of  lost  iron.  Horse- 
shoes were  not  so  plentiful  but  that  if  one  were 
found  near  the  scene  of  the  horse-stealing  talk 
might  arise. 

At  last  his  fears  goaded  him  into  a  journey  over 
the  trail  in  quest  of  the  missing  shoe.  There  was 
just  a  small  chance  that  he  might  happen  upon  it; 
if  an  Indian  had  found  it  a  plug  of  tobacco  would 
induce  him  to  part  with  his  treasure.  At  any  rate, 
a  day  in  the  saddle  was  nothing;  so  he  rode  his 
blue  roan  in  the  footsteps  he  had  taken  the  time 
of  the  horse-stealing;  but  there  was  only  the  ever- 
lasting spread  of  tawny  grass,  devoid  of  the  thing 
he  sought. 

The  quest  seemed  so  utterly  hopeless,  that  Des- 
coigne,  after  he  had  ridden  a  few  hours,  turned  in 
the  trail  and  made  his  way  back  to  Fort  Donald. 

As  he  forded  Otter  Creek  he  saw  a  tepee.  Per- 
176 


The  Blood  Lilies 

haps  it  contained  an  Indian  who  had  just  come 
over  the  trail,  and  might  have  picked  up  the  miss- 
ing shoe. 

He  turned  aside  to  the  lodge,  and  calling  at  the 
door  "Ho,  nichle!''  put  his  head  through  the 
loose  flap,  not  knowing  the  Indian  woman  as 
Wolf  Runner's  squaw. 

Bringing  forth  his  tobacco,  he  filled  his  pipe 
and  passed  the  plug  over  to  the  Cree  woman ;  and 
all  the  time  he  was  furtively  searching  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  lodge  for  the  horseshoe. 

As  they  smoked,  Mi-yah-tis  was  exploring  the 
visitor's  face  for  the  familiar  something  that  told 
her  she  had  seen  him  before. 

Suddenly  she  remembered;  a  little  catch  In  his 
voice  brought  It  all  back;  he  was  Joe  Descolgne, 
who  had  talked  to  Wolf  Runner  outside  the  tepee 
at  Vermilion. 

Yes,  she  had  come  from  the  way  of  Vermilion, 
the  Ugly  One  said.  In  answer  to  Descoigne's 
query.  No,  her  cayuse  did  not  wear  the  Iron  shoes ; 
for  the  Frenchman,  with  subtle  strategy,  was  com- 
plaining that  his  horse  was  lame  because  there 
were  no  shoes  In  Fort  Donald,  neither  good  Iron 
to  make  them.  If  she  had  two,  or  even  one,  he 
would  give  her  much  in  trade  for  It — even  If  she 
had  found  an  old  one  on  the  trail  he  would  buy  it. 

At  this  Ml-yah-tls's  heavy-browed  eyes  blinked 
177 


The  Blood  Lilies 

with  a  sudden  startling  of  thought.  Her  slow 
mind  had  seen  nothing  in  the  visitor's  first  request; 
now  she  knew.  She  felt  like  rushing  to  the  hiding- 
place  of  Mas-ki-sis's  iron  clew  to  see  if  it  were  safe. 
Did  this  man,  who  being  of  Fort  Donald  was  an 
enemy  to  Wolf  Runner,  know  of  their  treasured 
possession  ? 

Little  Mas-ki-sis,  coming  up  the  path  from  the 
rabbit-runs  in  the  creek  flats,  heard  a  strange  voice 
as  he  reached  the  back  of  the  lodge.  He  stopped 
and  listened.  Had  his  father.  Wolf  Runner,  come 
back? 

It  was  just  then  that  Descolgne  spoke  of  finding 
a  horseshoe. 

Mas-ki-sis's  ear  had  been  tutored  to  a  fine  dis- 
crimination in  sounds;  the  rustle  of  a  leaf,  the  whis- 
pering of  the  wind,  the  call  of  an  animal  were  all 
translatable  messages  to  him;  so,  when  the  man's 
voice  filtered  through  the  tepee-wall  he  knew  It 
was  the  same  that  had  threatened  him  with  death 
at  the  horse-stealing. 

He  crouched  in  the  silver-leafed  wolf-willow 
and  waited  for  the  stranger's  going.  Presently 
Descolgne,  convinced  that  the  iron  he  sought  had 
not  been  found,  came  from  the  tepee,  mounted  his 
blue  roan,  and  rode  away. 

Mas-ki-sis,  hugging  the  earth,  wormed  his  small 
body  to  a  spot  whence  he  could  watch  the  fa- 

178 


The  Blood  Lilies 

mlllar-volced  man.  Yes,  surely  it  was  the  same 
who  had  held  him  as  they  walked  to  the  horses 
that  night.  Yes,  that  was  the  way  the  horse-thief 
sat  the  saddle — riding  with  one  long  stirrup,  his 
body  tilted  to  the  left,  and  an  arm  held  high  in 
balance. 

Many  men  rode  that  way,  but  not  just  that  way; 
there  was  a  something  he  could  swear  to,  as  he 
could  tell  the  rolling  gait  of  one  bear  from  an- 
other. 

When  the  horseman  had  dipped  over  the  hill 
rising  out  of  Otter  Creek  the  boy  went  in  to  Mi- 
yah-tis  and  told  her  what  he  had  discovered. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  little  Otter,"  the  Ugly  One 
answered.  "  Now  you  can  tell  the  White  Mother's 
Chief,  who  is  at  Fort  Garry,  that  Joe  Descoigne 
stole  the  horses." 

"Will  the  White  Chief  believe  the  story  of 
Mas-ki-sis?"  the  boy  asked. 

"  The  great  White  Mother  loves  her  Indian 
children,  and  the  Chief,  who  is  at  Fort  Garry,  is 
her  husband,  or  perhaps  it  is  only  her  son ;  and  he 
is  a  great  chief,  and  will  know  whether  it  is  lies 
or  truth  when  Mas-ki-sis  tells  him  of  Joe  Des- 
coigne and  the  horse-stealing.  Yes,  little  Otter, 
it  is  good  you  go  to  Wolf  Runner.  I  have  spoken 
of  the  ways  of  the  big  fire-canoe,  and  anyone  can 
go  by  giving  the  canoe  ogama  this  money  that 

179 


The  Blood  Lilies 

they  use  to  make  trade.  You  will  not  be  afraid, 
little  Otter;  you  will  be  Mi-yah-tis's  brave?  '* 

"  I  will  be  a  little  afraid,"  Mas-ki-sis  answered; 
"  afraid  of  the  fire-canoe,  for  does  it  not  make  a 
howl  fiercer  than  any  wolf,  mother?  Yes,  Mas- 
ki-sis  will  be  a  little  afraid;  but  am  I  not  to  bring 
Wolf  Runner  back,  and  will  I  not  then  be  like  a 
brave?" 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mi-yah-tis,  "  it  will  not  profit 
to  speak  of  the  iron  here,  for  there  is  not  one  pale- 
face that  is  a  friend  to  Wolf  Runner.  Even  the 
one  who  is  big  and  strong,  like  a  great  chief,  and 
whose  eyes  were  the  color  of  little  spring  flowers 
that  dwell  in  bunches — " 

"  That  held  me  in  his  arms  in  the  snow, 
mother?"  queried  Mas-ki-sis.  *' Bull  Moose  I 
call  him." 

"  Yes,  that  moneas.  And  did  not  Wolf  Runner 
become  as  a  dog  in  the  harness  of  his  sled  that  he 
might  reach  to  the  fort  in  defeat  of  the  little  father? 
And  did  not  he,  your  bull  moose,  bring  the  police 
and  take  Wolf  Runner  from  his  tepee  ?  They  are 
all  evil,  little  Otter,  and  if  they  know  we  have  the 
horseshoe  they  will  take  it,  and  Wolf  Runner  will 
come  back  no  more." 


i8o 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

Malcolm  took  a  journey  after  the  stolen 
horses.  Word  had  come  that  they  were  at  Horse 
Hills,  which  is  the  Mecca  of  all  wandering  cayuses ; 
though  the  why  for  man  knows  not;  some  saying 
that  a  grass  grows  there  sweet  as  that  in  the  horse's 
heaven,  and  others  holding  to  the  belief  that  it  is 
a  flyless  spot;  but  certain  it  is,  that  in  the  equine 
brotherhood  these  hills  are  of  established  repute. 

Also  Malcolm  was  admonished  of  big  Sandy  to 
visit  the  tepee  of  Wolf  Runner  to  see  if  the  boy 
had  been  found.  And  on  the  back  of  a  pack-horse 
he  carried  a  gift  of  bacon  and  tea  for  the  woman 
of  Wolf  Runner.  Besides,  there  was  the  other 
mission  of  which  Sandy  spoke  to  no  one  but  Mal- 
colm ;  he  was  to  search  for  a  horseshoe  that  might 
mate  the  one  the  father  had  purloined  from  the 
little  shop  of  Felix  Benoit,  for  Cameron  had  found 
in  the  blacksmith's  shop  the  shoe  he  had  surmised 
had  been  taken  from  Descoigne's  blue  roan. 

Malcolm  brought  back  the  horses,  and  the  in- 
formation that  Wolf  Runner's  squaw  had  struck 
her  lodge  and  gone  away. 

One  day,   as  Mi-yah-tis  was  ladling  the   for- 
i8i 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ever-and-ever  rabbit-stew  from  the  big  pot  into  a 
wooden  bowl  that  Mas-ki-sis  held  in  his  little  hands, 
the  hoarse  snort  of  the  steamer's  whistle  startled 
her  so  that  she  let  a  portion  of  the  bubbling  hquid 
glaze  her  boy's  hand. 

Quick,  quick,  it  was  the  fire-canoe !  No  time  to 
eat.  And  yet,  stay,  her  little  Otter  must  not  go 
hungry ;  perhaps  nobody  would  offer  him  food  till 
he  came  to  the  presence  of  the  White  Mother's 
son. 

Even  the  boy's  appetite,  always  present,  was 
gone,  frightened  away  by  the  shrill  call  that  was  at 
Fort  Donald. 

"  Eat,  my  little  Otter,  eat,  eat,"  the  Cree 
woman  crooned,  as  she  made  ready  his  wardrobe ; 
which  was  a  jacket,  and  the  beautiful  white  and 
blue  beaded  moccasins  with  the  triangle  design 
and  the  little  geometric  squares — always  four  in  a 
line — such  beautiful  moccasins  as  had  never  been 
seen.  But  not  to  put  on  just  then;  the  mother 
would  carry  them  wrapped  in  her  head-shawl,  and 
when  they  were  come  to  the  fire-canoe  Mas-ki-sis 
would  put  them  on,  and  nobody  would  have  such 
beautiful  moccasins  as  Wolf  Runner's  little  boy. 
Even  the  great  White  Chief  at  Fort  Garry  would 
not  have  more  splendid  footwear.  He  would 
surely  be  pleased  with  little  Mas-ki-sis  when  he 
saw  the  moccasins,  and  the  horseshoe,  and  heard 

183 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  true  story.  Then  they  would  not  hang  the 
father — or  perhaps  he  was  only  to  be  shot — but 
would  send  him  back  to  his  lodge,  and  they  would 
all  return  to  Vermilion  and  give  to  their  friends 
a  tea-dance.  See,  there  in  a  little  casette  Mi-yah- 
tis  was  already  saving  up  tea  out  of  the  trade. 

When  the  mother  unwound  many  yards  of 
cloth,  and  held  in  her  big  strong  hand  the  dainty 
creation,  the  art  thing  in  blue  and  white  and 
green,  that  seemed  impossible  of  such  coarse 
fingers,  Mas-ki-sis  shouted  for  joy.  Then  he 
kissed  the  heavy  face — on  the  forehead,  and  the 
labor-dimmed  eyes,  and  the  thick  lips. 

Would  she  bring  the  cayuse  for  Mas-ki-sis  to 
ride?  No?  Well,  come  little  Otter;  and  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand,  as  they  had  trudged  that 
other  time,  the  broad-backed  squaw  and  the  little 
Indian  boy  took  up  the  pilgrimage  that  led  to  the 
shrine  of  justice  that  was  the  great  White  Mother's 
officer  at  Fort  Garry. 


183 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

Bruce,  the  minister,  was  on  the  "Saskatoon." 
He  had  come  down  the  river  from  the  west  on 
his  way  to  Winnipeg. 

Sandy  Cameron  had  gone  aboard  to  talk  with 
him,  begging  that  something  might  be  done  for 
Wolf  Runner;  for  in  the  Scot's  belief  he  was  inno- 
cent. He  was  sure  Descoigne  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  horse-stealing,  and  spoke  of  the  blue  roan's 
missing  shoe  and  the  one  he  had  in  his  possession. 

Sandy  had  said  good-by,  and  Bruce,  looking  over 
the  rail,  saw  a  heavy-faced  squaw  of  generous  size 
on  the  clay  bank  near  the  gang-plank  gazing  wist- 
fully at  the  huge  structure.  Beside  her  stood  a 
little  Indian  lad.  There  was  nothing  in  the  indi- 
viduality of  the  squaw  to  arrest  his  attention;  it  was 
the  moccasins  that  clad  the  boy's  feet  that  caught 
the  minister's  eye.  There  was  something  pathet- 
ically incongruous  in  the  sudden  termination  of 
ragged  clothes,  cut  off,  as  it  were,  separated  from 
the  brown  earth,  by  the  dainty  art  dream  of  blend- 
ed blue  and  white  and  green  beads. 

Bruce  had  inherited  something  of  the  barbaric 
184 


The  Blood  Lilies 

art  instinct  that  had  caused  his  forefathers  to 
evolve  the  Scotch  tartans;  also  was  he  not  for- 
ever and  ever  each  day  of  his  life  trying  to  arrest 
in  the  minds  of  his  nomadic  charges  just  this  sort 
of  inconsistent  prodigality?  How  like  an  Indian 
it  was  I  Why  did  not  the  little  lad  go  barefooted, 
and  the  mother  put  the  value  of  the  moccasins  on 
his  back  in  warm  clothing  ?  Probably  he  was  even 
half-starved;  he  was  certainly  of  an  unreasoning 
thinness ;  and  yet,  there  he  stood  in  the  soiling  mud 
of  the  river-bank,  his  feet  encased  in  gaudy  cover- 
ing that  Bruce  himself  would  gladly  have  pur- 
chased. 

The  minister  had  never  seen  quite  such  deli- 
cately treated  bead-work — certainly  not  on  the 
feet  of  a  boy.  Away  to  the  south  the  Bloods  and 
Peigans  worked  their  beads  like  that,  but  all  he 
had  seen  in  the  north  had  been  crude  In  com- 
parison. 

As  Bruce  gazed  upon  the  old  squaw  and  the  lit- 
tle boy,  his  heart  full  of  an  angry  reproach  be- 
cause of  her  thriftless  attention  to  display,  a  les- 
son came  to  him  with  the  articulate  force  of  two 
words  that  for  ages  have  come  down  in  crushing 
denunciation :  "  Thou  Fool !  " 

There  was  a  warning  toot  of  the  whistle,  three 
deck-hands  ran  over  the  gang-plank  to  loosen  the 
hawsers,  and  just  then  the  Cree  woman,  that  was 

185 


The  Blood  Lilies 

wife  to  Wolf  Runner,  threw  her  big  strong  arms 
around  the  little  lad,  that  was  Mas-ki-sis,  and 
folded  him  to  her  broad  breast  as  though  she 
would  keep  her  little  Otter  there  forever  and 
ever;  and  down  the  wrinkled  face,  with  its  massive 
jaws,  trickled  rivulets  of  tears,  and  the  boy's 
breath  came  in  gasps,  as  though  he  swung, 
thorn-held,  in  the  torture-circle  of  the  Sun- 
Dance. 

Then  the  big  arms  swung  pendulous,  and  Mas- 
ki-sis  stole  up  the  gang-plank  like  a  frightened 
hare.  The  tableau  taught  the  wise  man  who  was 
Bruce  all  the  wondrousness  of  the  parting  gift  of 
the  little  moccasins.  All  the  mother  had  to  give; 
the  self-denial  to  buy  the  beads;  the  patient  toil 
that  at  the  end  it  might  be  all-beautiful;  and  the 
aftermath,  the  tug  at  her  heart-strings  and  the 
tears. 

Where  the  boy  was  going  did  not  matter,  he 
was  going  away — that  was  all  in  all  to  the 
mother. 

Bruce  lost  himself  for  a  minute  in  mental  con- 
templation of  the  shattered  fabric  of  his  wise  re- 
vilings.  He  was  wakened  by  the  bustle  of  some- 
body passing  over  the  gang-plank,  and  the  voice  of 
Captain  Ball  exclaiming:  "Them  damn  nichies 
make  me  tired!  What  does  the  ould  squaw  want? 
Does  she  think  Winnipeg's  round  the  first  bend?  '* 

i86 


The  Blood  Lilies 

And  the  boy  with  the  moccasins  was  being  driven 
ashore. 

Bruce  ran  up  the  steps  to  Captain  Ball,  who  was 
near  the  pilot-house. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  ould  she-wolf  of  a  nichie  sendin'  that 
kid  aboord  wit'  half  the  price  av  his  ticket  to  Win- 
nipeg— that's  what's  the  matter,  sor." 

"  Couldn't  you  take  him  on?"  asked  the  min- 
ister. 

"  To  starve  is  it?  "  queried  Ball,  half-angrily. 

"  Whose  bairn  is  it — ^where's  he  going?  "  asked 
the  minister. 

*'  Faith  the  divil — I  mane,  beggin'  your  par- 
don, the  Lord  knows,  an'  he  won't  tell,  nayther 
will  the  kid." 

"  Just  hold  her  for  a  minute,  Captain;  I'll  away 
down  and  have  a  talk  with  the  squaw." 

"  It's  all  up,"  moaned  Ball,  in  comic  despair; 
"  th'  ould  hag'll  jest  kid  the  preacher,  he's  that 
soft-hearted.  An'  if  the  rat  wants  to  go  to  New 
York,  Bruce'll  send  him." 

The  Scotch  minister  went  over  the  gang-plank 
with  energetic  stride. 

"What  is  it,  nichie?"  he  said  in  Cree  to  the 
squaw. 

As  she  raised  her  massive  face,  in  which  the 
small,  yellow-tinged  eyes  looked  insufficient,  Bruce 

187 


The  Blood  Lilies 

started,  took  a  step  forward,  and,  peering  sharply 
at  her,  exclaimed:  '^  You — you  are  wife  to  Wolf 
Runner — you  are  of  his  lodge?  '* 

The  impassive,  expressionless  face  answered 
nothing  at  all,  either  in  word  or  look. 

"  I  say  you  are  of  Wolf  Runner's  lodge,"  re- 
peated Bruce,  almost  crossly;  "  do  you  not  hear?  '* 
Then  softening,  "  Did  you  not  make  the  hot  soup 
for  me  when  I  was  starved  with  the  cold,  good 
woman?  " 

The  small  eyes  blinked  like  a  turtle's. 

"And  am  I  not  your  friend?  Come,  tell  me, 
what's  the  trouble  ?  Will  the  boy  be  going  to  his 
father?  If  it  is  so,  my  poor  woman,  I  will  take 
him  and  bring  him  back  again." 

Still  the  Cree  woman,  first  of  all  a  suspicious 
Indian,  gave  no  sign  of  confidence.  Was  not  the 
speaker  a  paleface,  friend  to  the  moneas  that  had 
betrayed  Wolf  Runner?  But  Mas-ki-sis  was  a 
boy,  and  children,  like  animals,  know  their  friends 
out  of  intuition,  and  he,  speaking  to  his  mother, 
said:  "  I  am  the  son  of  Wolf  Runner,  who  is  a 
brave;  neither  did  he  steal  the  horses.  I  will  be 
a  brave,  even  as  Wolf  Runner  is.  Mas-ki-sis  will 
go  with  the  ogama  to  Wolf  Runner.  The  ogama 
speaks  not  with  a  forked  tongue,  mother,  for  he, 
too,  saved  me  when  I  was  dead  with  cold.  Yes, 
Mas-ki-sis  will  go." 

i88 


The  Blood  Lilies 

He  held  up  his  face,  full  of  its  brave  confidence, 
and  the  mother,  saying  nothing,  kissed  him,  and 
the  little  bead  eyes  were  blurred  out  of  all  dis- 
cerning. 

"  Now,  Ogama,"  the  boy  said,  grasping  the 
Bruce's  coat  in  his  fingers,  "  Mas-ki-sis  is  ready. 
You  will  take  him  to  Wolf  Runner,  who  did  not 
steal  the  horses." 

"  What  did  I  say?  "  cried  Captain  Ball,  as  the 
two  came  up  the  gang-plank.  "  The  minister  is 
a  tenderfoot  for  these  worthless  divils  av  nichics. 
Cast  off  there,  ye  lubbers!  " — Ball  had  been  cap- 
tain of  a  tug  in  New  Brunswick — "  take  charge, 
Pilot!     Damn  the  nichies!  " 

Then  to  himself  he  muttered,  for  his  heart  was 
really  of  an  Irish  softness,  and  he  had  heard  Bruce 
say  it  was  Wolf  Runner's  boy:  "Sure,  if  Fd 
knowed  the  little  divil  was  an  orphan,  wit'  his 
father  in  jail,  Td  a  took  him  mesilf." 

Then  the  ponderous  sturgeon-nosed  steamer, 
with  the  full  dignity  of  one  of  the  great  Company's 
possessions,  glided  down  the  Saskatchewan  to 
Grand  Rapids. 


189 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

The  Cree  woman  grew  more  hopelessly 
drooped  and  squat  as  the  steamer  slipped  down 
the  rapid  river.  Even  after  it  had  rounded  the 
point  and  disappeared,  she  still  stood  there  soli- 
tary and  alone,  as  though  some  faint  hope  clung  to 
her  that  it  might  put  about  and  return. 

Nobody  in  the  world  had  ever  felt  quite  so  alone 
as  she  did.  When  Wolf  Runner  had  been  taken 
away,  there  was  still  Mas-ki-sis ;  now  he  was  gone, 
and  there  was  no  one. 

Without  speaking  to  anyone,  without  looking  to 
right  or  left,  with  her  head  low  hung,  she  plodded 
back  to  the  tepee  that  was  like  the  willow-bluff  at 
Vermilion  where  they  put  their  dead  high  on  pole 
platforms.  What  she  was  to  do  she  did  not  know; 
she  had  not  even  thought  of  herself  up  to  that 
time;  her  one  idea  had  been  that  little  Mas-ki-sis 
must  go  with  the  horseshoe  and  bring  Wolf  Run- 
ner back. 

For  a  day  she  sat  in  her  lodge  crooning  a  song 
of  pity  to  Manitou.  Once  she  went  out  and  put 
more  red  cloth  on  the  willows  to  propitiate  the 

190 


The  Blood  Lilies 

wicked  spirits.  But  everywhere  there  were  mem- 
ories of  Mas-ki-sis.  There  the  little  run-way  he 
had  come  up  by  from  the  small  tamarack  muskeg 
that  was  the  home  of  wapoos;  and  in  the  bank  of 
the  creek  there  were  prints  of  his  fingers  where  he 
had  dug  soft  clay  to  make  balls  for  his  willow- 
withe  sling. 

And  his  fish-weir  just  below  the  tepee — it  was 
now  full  of  suckers,  that  swarmed  to  the  shallow 
water  of  the  creek's  side,  eating  the  myriad  black- 
bugs  that  came  always  every  autumn. 

Mi-yah-tis  broke  the  weir,  and  the  shoal  of  fool- 
ish suckers  splashed  away  in  affright,  as  though 
they  escaped  one  who  sought  their  flesh,  that  was 
now  worthless  in  its  softness. 

On  the  smooth  earthen  floor  of  the  lodge  was  a 
little  pyramid  of  antelope  knuckle-boncs — Mas-ki- 
sis's  jack-stones.  Just  there  the  lad  used  to  sit  and 
play  jack-stones  with  her.  Yes,  even  she,  the  No- 
kum,  had  played  with  him  as  though  she  were  a 
girl. 

The  mother  gathered  up  the  rude  bone  play- 
things and  rubbed  them  against  her  cheek,  then 
she  put  them  carefully  away  with  the  tea  that  was 
for  the  tea-dance  at  the  home-coming  of  her  brave. 

And  the  old  moccasins  of  the  little  boy — almost 
soleless  through  wear!  How  glad  she  was  that 
she  had  made  the  new  ones  so  beautiful.    But  the 

191 


The  Blood  Lilies 

discarded  moccasins,  beyond  value  for  use,  were 
precious  because  Mas-ki-sis  had  run  and  laughed 
and  gambolled  in  them,  so  they,  too,  were  made  of 
the  treasure-hoard. 

Presently  the  mother  stopped  in  wonderment  at 
her  occupation ;  instinctively  she  was  packing  up — 
most  certainly  she  was.  Her  poor  tortured  spirit 
was  crying  out  like  a  caged  bird  for  return  to  Ver- 
milion, to  the  home  that  had  been  hers  with  Wolf 
Runner  and  Mas-ki-sis.  It  was  a  good  thought. 
In  the  morning  she  would  take  the  cayuse  and 
travois  to  Vermilion.  She  must  take  the  horse 
back  to  Calf  Shirt — she  had  not  meant  to  keep 
it  so  long.  She  would  wait  at  Vermilion  for  the 
coming  of  Wolf  Runner,  for  the  trail  from  Fort 
Garry  came  near  to  that  place. 

While  the  Cree  woman's  mind  was  filled  with 
the  tremendous  responsibility  of  gathering  to- 
gether the  few  things  that  were  the  household 
gods  of  the  father,  and  the  little  boy,  and  herself, 
the  loneliness  that  was  in  her  heart  was  subdued; 
but  by  and  by,  in  the  hours  when  wapoos  scurries 
over  the  run-ways,  and  the  owl  blinks  with  solemn 
satisfaction  on  the  darkened  earth,  she  rested, 
bereft  of  toil,  and  Misery  came  and  sat  at  the  fire- 
side, and  mocked  her  till  she  cried  aloud  in  anguish 
after  the  foolish  manner  of  Indian  women  who 
love  their  children  more  than  sleep.     Her  wail 

192 


Her  wail  was  like  that  of  a  she-wolf. 


The  Blood  Lilies 

was  like  that  of  a  she-wolf's,  hideous  in  its  dis- 
cordant lack  of  control.  The  barbaric  lament 
wandered  up  the  spruce  forest  that  filled  the  val- 
ley of  Otter  Creek,  and  started  a  pack  of  ever- 
ready  coyotes  into  vociferous  echo. 

Even  to  Fort  Donald  the  night-wind  carried  the 
pibroch  of  these  prairie-wolves,  and  the  train-dogs 
howled  back  a  derisive  challenge,  till  the  dwellers 
relapsed  from  all  hope  of  sleep.  The  vibrant  pain 
in  the  pagan  heart  of  an  old  squaw  had  spread  its 
troubled  influence  over  the  beasts  of  the  forest  and 
the  men  of  the  town.  Such  is  the  force  of  animate 
sympathy.  Surely  the  dirge  of  little  Mas-ki-sis's 
going  was  of  extent,  and  equal  unto  his  endeavor. 


193 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

On  the  steamer  Minister  Bruce  sought  to  draw 
the  little  Indian  waif  out  of  his  shy  timidity.  In 
the  tepee  of  his  mother  he  had  been  brave  enough 
at  thought  of  the  pilgrimage  to  his  father;  but 
now,  listening  to  the  fierce  throb  of  the  giant 
wheel,  the  harsh  commands  of  the  pilot,  the  swirl 
of  rushing  rapids;  seeing  a  cordon  of  white  faces 
close-drawn  about  him,  and  set  in  the  white  faces 
eyes  that  peered  at  him  as  though  they  would  dis- 
cover his  secret — see  beneath  his  cloth  jacket  and 
thin  print  shirt  the  worn  iron  shoe  that  hung  from 
his  neck  by  a  cord  of  shaganappi,  he  became  as  shy 
as  a  trapped  fox-cub.  Even  with  Bruce  he  was  not 
communicative.  Had  he  not  promised  his  mother 
that  only  to  the  Great  Ogama  at  Fort  Garry  would 
he  tell  the  name  of  the  horse-thief — only  to  him 
would  he  show  the  evidence  that  no  one  could 
doubt?  Yet  he  trusted  this  friend;  his  mother  had 
said  that  all  the  palefaces  spoke  lies,  but  that  was 
because  she  did  not  know  this  ogama  who  had 
saved  him  from  death  in  the  blizzard,  and  was 
taking  him  to  Wolf  Runner  when  the  others  had 
driven  him  from  the  fire-canoe. 

194 


The  Blood  Lilies 

But  Ml-yah-tis  was  wise;  she  was  old,  and  wis- 
dom came  only  with  age,  and  he  would  hold  true 
to  her  commands.  He  would  say  nothing  of  the 
horseshoe,  even  to  this  white  man  who  was  his 
friend. 

But  Bruce  learned  from  the  boy  that  he  meant 
to  find  his  father  and  go  with  him  to  the  Governor 
to  tell  the  Big  Chief  that  Wolf  Runner  did  not 
steal  the  horses. 

The  minister  knew  the  Indian  would  be  in 
Stony  Mountain  jail,  a  dozen  miles  from  Winni- 
peg, so  the  boy's  hopes  were  impossible  of  attain- 
ment. But  he  would  himself  take  Mas-ki-sis  to  the 
Governor,  for  it  was  this  official  the  squaw  had 
conjured  into  a  son  or  husband  of  the  Great  White 
Mother. 

At  Winnipeg  Bruce  had  the  boy  lodged  in  com- 
fort, and,  having  secured  an  audience  with  the 
Governor,  took  little  Mas-ki-sis  before  the  great 
official. 

The  minister  acted  as  interpreter,  for  the  Gov- 
ernor was  not  versed  in  Cree.  This  seemed  a  di- 
rect intercession  of  Providence,  for  it  gave  the  lad 
confidence,  and  he  told  his  story  to  Bruce  with  a 
simple  directness  that  carried  conviction  beyond 
the  possibility  of  the  most  powerful  eloquence.  It 
was  just  as  the  Cree  woman  had  named  it,  the  true 
tale  of  the  horse-stealing. 

195 


The  Blood  Lilies 

When  Mas-ki-sis  came  in  his  narrative  to  the 
finding  of  the  horseshoe,  and  brought  it  forth 
from  beneath  his  jacket,  Bruce  cried  out  in  aston- 
ishment, for  he  knew  big  Sandy  had  the  other  link 
in  this  peculiar  chain  of  evidence.  And  when  the 
Governor  had  this  collateral  from  the  minister's 
lips,  he  was  convinced  beyond  doubt. 

Strangely  enough,  the  beautiful  moccasins  had 
appealed  to  him.  Once  he  had  spoken  in  a  lull  of 
the  talk,  and  asked  of  their  origin.  "  Mi-yah-tis, 
who  is  Mas-ki-sis's  mother,  made  them,"  the  boy 
answered ;  and  the  Governor,  speaking  to  Minister 
Bruce,  said:  "People  who  love  such  beautiful 
things  as  these  can't  be  all  bad.  People  who  are 
horse-thieves  and  depraved  are  beyond  the  power 
of  art.  The  boy  must  have  a  good  mother;  nor 
does  he  speak  as  though  he  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
of  lies." 

Also  Bruce  told  of  the  bhzzard,  and  how  Wolf 
Runner  had  cast  himself  into  the  dog  harness,  out 
of  gratitude,  and  hung  true  to  them  even  to  the 
gates  of  Fort  Donald.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
Joe  Descoigne,  out  of  revenge,  had  sought  to 
throw  all  the  villany  upon  the  Indian's  friendless 
head. 

The  Governor  had  a  son  of  the  age  of  Mas-ki- 
sis,  and  though  in  justice  that  should  have  had  no 
bearing  on  the  case,  perhaps  it  did  intrude  the 

196 


The  Blood  Lilies 

father  into  what  should  have  been  a  stern,  inexor- 
able administrator  of  the  law. 

At  any  rate,  Wolf  Runner  was  brought  under 
guard  the  next  day  from  Stony  Mountain  jail  and 
questioned.  If  Bruce  had  not  been  there  he  might 
have  preserved  the  sullen  silence  with  which  he  had 
suffered  for  the  crime  of  someone  else;  but  when 
the  minister  told  him  he  was  there  as  a  friend  to 
set  him  free,  he  spoke. 

Was  not  he  the  wronged  one  ?  As  he  tracked  a 
bull-moose  in  the  forest,  had  not  the  redcoats 
come  and  stolen  away  his  little  Mas-ki-sis — his 
son,  whom  he  loved  even  as  the  white  men  loved 
their  children;  had  not  the  mother  wept,  and 
moaned,  and  cried  that  her  little  Otter  was  dead  ? 
And  then  the  police  had  come  back  without  the 
boy,  speaking  the  silly  lie  that  he  had  stolen  their 
horses.  Then  they  had  taken  him  from  his  lodge, 
and  cast  him  into  the  prison  at  Stony  Mountain, 
even  as  the  Company  had  always  done  with  trap- 
pers who  traded  not  with  them. 

When  Wolf  Runner  had  ceased  speaking,  the 
Governor,  turning  to  his  orderly,  said:  "  Bring  in 
Mas-ki-sis,  the  little  boy  with  the  beautiful  moc- 
casins." 

And  when  the  lad  was  brought  and  led  to  Wolf 
Runner,  the  Governor,  and  Bruce,  the  minister, 
even  the  orderly,  who  was  a  sinful  soldier,  must 

197 


The  Blood  Lilies 

needs  turn  their  backs  and  busy  themselves  with 
some  little  matter  that  could  not  wait  another  in- 
stant. The  Governor's  nose  needed  a  furious 
blowing — a  persistent  attention  of  handkerchief; 
even  a  sudden  cold  got  into  his  eyes  and  watered 
them.  It  was  something  in  the  street  that  called 
Minister  Bruce  to  the  window — such  an  engrossing 
something.  And  where  the  man  who  had  been 
thought  a  horse-thief  stood,  there  was  a  noise  as 
though  a  tigress  had  found  her  lost  cub. 

Mas-ki-sis  whispered  to  Wolf  Runner  that  it  was 
the  minister  ogama  who  had  brought  him,  the 
ogama  beside  whom  Wolf  Runner  had  lain  the  cold 
night  of  the  blizzard. 

When  Bruce  turned  from  the  window,  because 
the  Governor  had  coughed  three  times,  the  Indian 
held  out  his  hand  and  said:  "  My  people  say  that 
Manitou  made  all  the  gray-eyed  palefaces  with 
forked  tongues  and  bad  hearts,  but  that  is  a 
lie." 

Bruce  took  the  Indian's  hand  in  his  own  big 
Scotch  paw,  and  the  Governor  coughed  again,  nod- 
ding his  head  in  approbation. 

But  the  accused  man  must  remain  under  guard 
for  a  little  yet,  for  there  was  the  sending  to  Fort 
Donald  of  a  police  patrol  to  bring  down  big  Sandy 
with  his  horseshoe,  and  Joe  Descoigne  with  irons 
of  a  different  shape  on  his  wrists — even  the  blue 

198 


The  Blood  Lilies 

roan  of  Descoigne's  must  be  brought,  that  the 
shoes  might  be  fitted  and  the  evidence  completed. 
And  when  all  this  was  done,  the  Frenchman, 
who  was  the  true  horse-thief,  went  to  Stony  Moun- 
tain for  three  years,  and  Wolf  Runner  was  to  go 
back  with  Bruce  to  the  heavy-faced  squaw  who 
waited  in  the  empty  lodge  at  Vermilion. 


199 


CHAPTER    XXX 

Governor  Hodge  had  the  Englishman's  faith 
that  a  boy  untutored  of  masters  was  of  little  use 
in  the  world;  white,  red,  or  black,  what  mattered 
the  color — education  was  the  thing.  His  own  off- 
spring, who  was  the  age  of  Mas-ki-sis,  was  then 
at  Harrow,  in  England,  receiving  allopathic  doses 
of  instruction. 

The  beautiful  blue  and  white  moccasins  of 
Wolf  Runner's  son  somehow  instilled  into  the 
Governor's  mind  an  idea  of  violent  incongruity  be- 
tween their  wearer  and  an  untutored  life  in  the 
forest.  Mas-ki-sis  most  certainly  ought  to  be  edu- 
cated in  a  knowledge  of  the  white  man's  lore. 
So,  before  the  Reverend  Bruce  left  Winnipeg,  the 
Queen's  Executive  discussed  with  him  the  same 
matter. 

The  minister  was  not  so  sure  that  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  Mas-ki-sis.  He  had  a  huge  under- 
standing of  things,  had  the  Scotchman.  In  his 
mind  lurked  many  quaint,  not  altogether  definitely 
perfected  ideas  that  the  Lord,  in  His  creative  wis- 
dom, had  formed  all  objects,  animate  and  inani- 

200 


The  Blood  Lilies 

mate,  to  a  preconceived  end;  his  experience  had 
taught  him  that  the  farther  removed  the  Indian 
was  from  the  white  man,  the  happier  and  better 
he  was. 

This  was  somewhat  anomalous,  considering  his 
own  mission,  and  seemed  to  cast  a  distinct  reflec- 
tion of  uselessness  upon  the  crusade  of  his  Church. 
But,  in  reality,  Bruce  held  this  view  only  as  re- 
lating to  the  forest  Indians ;  there  was  still  a  wide 
field  of  endeavor  for  him.  The  half-breeds  and 
Company's  Indians,  who,  by  virtue  of  their  occu- 
pation, were  always  subject  to  the  contaminating 
influence  of  the  white  man,  with  his  whiskey  and 
his  diseases  and  his  immorality,  was  a  field  populous 
enough,  needful  enough  of  moral  supervision  from 
the  Church. 

Mas-ki-sis  was  undoubtedly  a  pure-blood  Indian, 
and  in  the  Bruce's  mind  it  was  a  question  whether 
he  would  not  be  better  left  to  his  Manitou  wor- 
ship and  the  forest  life  that  would  at  least  bring 
him  to  a  physical  manhood.  But  the  Scot's  priest- 
hood forbade  him  putting  it  strongly  to  the  Gov- 
ernor in  this  light;  it  would  be  like  turning  away 
a  soul  from  its  chance  of  salvation.  At  least  it 
would  appeal  in  that  way  to  Governor  Hodge, 
who  was  strong  on  questions  of  Church  infallibility 
and  the  utility  of  civilized  training.  In  fact,  the 
Governor  was  a  forceful  man,  unaccustomed  to 

201 


The  Blood  Lilies 

being  crossed.  He  had  taken  an  unusual  liking  to 
the  Indian  boy — had  already  determined  to  better 
his  condition.  Of  course,  that  meant  that  the  bet- 
terment would  be  along  lines  of  his  own  conception. 

The  English  Governor  knew  nothing  of  the 
world  of  simple  love  which  filled  the  heavy-faced 
Cree  woman's  heart  at  Vermilion.  Even  if  he  had 
known,  it  is  not  likely  he  would  have  allowed  crude 
sentiment  of  that  sort  to  deflect  the  manifest  des- 
tiny of  the  surprisingly  bright  boy. 

"  We'll  put  Mas-ki-sis  to  school  at  St.  John's," 
he  said  to  the  Bruce — and  he  spoke  not  in  a  tone  of 
consultation — "  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  boy  will 
yet  make  a  strong  lieutenant  to  the  Good  Cause. 
We'll  make  a  Christian  of  the  little  pagan;  and 
he  will  go  back  to  his  own  people  and  save  many  a 
soul." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will  go  hard  with  Wolf  Runner, 
Your  Excellency;  he's  much  attached  to  the  lad.  I 
hardly  think  he'll  consent." 

The  Governor  smiled  in  amusement;  this  sim- 
ple-minded Scotchman  spoke  as  though  it  were  a 
matter  between  two  Indians.  He  was  there  as 
Governor  to  these  children  of  the  plains,  and  to  de- 
cide what  was  best  for  them ;  he  stood  in  the  shoes 
of  their  great  White  Mother. 

But  the  official  was  also  a  diplomat,  not  given 
to    useless   expressions   calculated  to   wound   any 

202 


The  Blood  Lilies 

man's  sensibilities;  so  he  answered  with  evident 
sincerity:  "Yes,  yes — of  course,  of  course;  we 
must  win  over  the  father — we  must  explain  to  him 
fully  that  it  is  for  the  boy's  good.  These  simple 
tepee  dwellers  have  really  a  very  keen  worldly 
sense,  and  we  might  give  Wolf  Runner  a  hint — 
they  are  quick  to  resentment,  childishly  so — just  a 
hint,  that,  with  his  son  in  our  protection,  his  own 
outlook  will  be  better." 

"  Yes,"  concurred  the  minister,  "  we  must  send 
Wolf  Runner  back  satisfied.  The  boy's  mother 
is  eating  her  old  heart  out  for  the  lad,  I'm 
afraid." 

Governor  Hodge  arched  his  eyebrows  slightly, 
and  stole  a  furtive  look  at  the  other's  face.  Did 
the  Scotchman  really  believe  this  sort  of  thing?  It 
seemed  an  idea  of  extreme  grotesqueness  that  an 
Indian,  or  even  more  so,  a  squaw,  should  have  a 
troubled  heart  over  anything  but  food  or  work  or 
killing. 

The  dissimilarity  of  belief  of  which  the  two  men 
were  possessed  was  entirely  of  environment.  Gov- 
ernor Hodge  knew  his  Indians  out  of  literature; 
while  Bruce  had  broken  bread  with  them,  had 
slept  by  the  same  camp-fire,  and  had  read  a  little  in 
their  hearts.  His  knowledge,  perhaps,  was  great- 
er; but  the  other's  authority  was  supreme.  So  the 
Governor's  way  was  the  way.    Mas-ki-sis  remained 

203 


The  Blood  Lilies 

at  school  in  St.  John's,  and  Wolf  Runner  went  baclc 
with  the  Bruce  to  Vermilion. 

The  Indian's  heart  was  heavy  over  parting  with 
the  boy;  but  had  not  the  Governor  loosed  him 
from  a  living  death,  sent  him  back  to  his  Mi-yah- 
tis  and  his  forest-life?  Surely  that  was  some- 
thing. 

And  w^hen  they  came  to  Vermilion,  to  the  lonely 
Cree  woman  waiting  in  the  skin  tepee,  it  had  all  to 
be  talked  over  and  made  soft  to  her  understanding, 
and  the  goodness  of  the  White  Mother's  agent  en- 
larged upon. 

And  she,  though  in  her  heart  was  the  wail  of 
Hagar,  took  comfort  and  strength,  because  Bruce 
Ogama,  who  had  twice  saved  Wolf  Runner,  and 
had  also  warmed  Mas-ki-sis  in  the  death-snow,  said 
it  was  good.  Also  Wolf  Runner  was  satisfied,  so 
what  mattered  her  loneliness?  All  her  life  she  had 
lived  in  an  atmosphere  saturated  with  the  prepon- 
derating man  interest.  It  was  an  occasion  such  as 
the  making  of  a  brave — to  be  withstood  without 
lament. 

Bruce  arranged  it  that  Wolf  Runner  was  given 
employment  at  Fort  Donald. 

That  Mas-ki-sis  had  come  into  the  Governor's 
favor  had  effect  even  with  the  factor;  also,  in  the 
way  of  reparation,  something  was  due  to  the 
Indian. 

204 


The  Blood  Lilies 

In  addition,  because  of  the  happening  to  Des- 
colgne,  Wolf  Runner  was  given,  with  voluminous 
unstint,  a  full  measure  of  silent  hatred  by  Felix 
Benolt  and  the  adherents  of  Descolgne. 

The  Indian  drove  dogs  for  the  factor,  packed 
furs,  and  ranged  the  forest  for  fresh  meat.  He 
and  Ml-yah-tis  lived  In  their  tepee  on  the  squaw's 
old  camping-ground  at  Otter  Creek. 

With  the  peculiar  nomadic  Instinct  that  Is  pos- 
sessed of  the  red  man,  several  families  had  mi- 
grated from  Fort  Donald  proper  to  Otter  Creek, 
and  the  place  had  attained  to  the  glory  of  an 
Indian  village. 

All  through  the  winter  the  Cree  woman  nursed 
her  loneliness,  and  fulfilled  the  mission  of  her  life, 
which  was  work.  In  the  little  poplar  bluff  that 
had  been  swept  by  fire  till  the  slim,  straight-grow- 
ing aspens  stood  barkless  and  silver-white  in  the 
dry  air,  she  cut  billets  of  wood  for  the  camp-fire. 
She  took  Mas-kl-sls's  rabbit-snares  and  set  them  In 
the  old  run-ways  he  had  known  in  the  autumn,  and 
brought  meat  to  the  larder  of  her  lord. 

When  he  had  satisfied  the  hunger,  which  was 
like  unto  that  of  a  cormorant,  with  the  rabbit  sad- 
dle, or  the  breast  of  a  bird,  or  whatever  else  was 
choice  and  sweet  to  the  tooth,  she,  too,  would,  from 
the  rejected,  take  sustenance,  that  her  strength 
might  remain  for  the  work. 

205 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Outwardly,  her  life  was  as  aesthetic  as  the  ex- 
istence of  a  ground-hog;  inwardly,  humanly,  deep- 
guarded  by  an  exterior  of  heavy-faced  restraint, 
her  poor  old  heart  talked  incessantly  of  Mas-ki-sis, 
and  strove  with  crude  incapacity  to  picture  him  in 
the  school  of  the  ogamas. 

Sometimes,  when  Wolf  Runner  was  away,  she 
would  bring  forth  the  antelope  knuckle-bones,  and, 
squatted  on  the  earth-floor,  play  "  jack-stones " 
with  a  fancy-created  Mas-ki-sis;  chide  him  when, 
because  of  some  trick  of  his,  she  would  lose  one  of 
the  yellow  bones.  Sometimes  she  laughed  at  him 
and  called  him  pet  names;  her  little  Otter — her 
sleek,  fat  little  Otter.  Then  the  bones  would 
be  put  away;  and,  with  her  red-stone  pipe  filled 
with  tobacco  and  kinnikinick,  the  dried  inner  bark 
of  the  red  willow,  she  would  sit  and  smoke,  and 
talk  to  Mas-ki-sis,  who  was  at  her  side;  perhaps, 
even,  she  could  feel  his  little  fingers  warm  and  soft 
in  her  own  big  gnarled  hand,  that  was  horn-crusted 
because  of  the  axe-handle,  and  the  skin-scraping 
moose-bone. 

She  had  an  art-treasure,  a  cabinet  of  rare  an- 
tiques, a  little  wooden  cassette  filled  with  all  that 
had  belonged  to  Mas-ki-sis.  His  blow-pipe,  a  hol- 
lowed alder;  his  horse-hair  snares;  his  snake-stick; 
his  little  snow-shoes;  the  willow  bow  with  the 
feathered  arrows;  a  horse-hair  fish-line,  with  bent 

20$ 


The  Blood  Lilies 

nail  for  hook;  even  the  old  moccasins,  made  sa- 
cred by  the  holes  his  eager  toes  had  worn:  all 
these  were  in  the  cassette,  to  be  overhauled  every 
day  of  the  long  winter. 

The  Cree  mother  even  made  a  little  manikin 
from  birch-bark,  a  marionette  Mas-ki-sis — a  min- 
iature embodiment  of  her  heart's  delight.  And 
because  of  this  harmless  toy,  which  was  noth- 
ing, a  tragic  happening  came  down  the  trail 
of  Fate  and  lodged  in  the  tepee  of  Wolf  Run- 
ner. 

In  Otter  Creek  village  was  the  medicine-no- 
kum,  Nistas.  She  was  mother  to  the  wife  of 
Felix  Benoit.  Now  the  Evil  One  has  no  juris- 
diction in  any  community  unless  he  acquires  a  hu- 
man agent;  and  years  before — it  was  at  the  time 
of  the  nokum's  birth — the  Devil,  casting  about 
for  a  naturally  endowed  worker,  chanced  upon 
Nistas. 

In  semblance  to  humanity  her  beauty  was  on  a 
par  with  that  of  Mi-yah-tis — she  was  just  as  ugly; 
but  inwardly,  in  all  of  Dante's  Inferno,  there  were 
not  two  spirits  more  unlike. 

The  first  manifestation  of  Nistas's  activity  was 
conjugal  trouble. 

Now,  there  is  this  in  truth  in  an  Indian's  manner 
of  life:  if  anything  happens,  for  good  or  for  evil, 
it  is  of  medicine-making,  and  of  the  interference  of 

207 


The  Blood  Lilies 

spirits.  Natural  causes  and  hygienic  punishments 
are  beyond  the  pale  of  his  understanding. 

So,  when  Baptiste  Lerocq,  the  half-breed,  dis- 
covered that  his  wife  was  absent-minded,  to  say 
the  least,  in  her  affection,  he  declared  that  some- 
body had  made  medicine  against  him — had  cast  a 
spell  over  Suzette  until  she  preferred  David 
Monkman,  whose  neck  he  could  most  certainly 
twist — a  Monkman  was  no  man  at  all.  But  in- 
stead of  twisting  the  favored  one's  neck,  Lerocq 
sought  for  the  instigator  of  his  matrimonial  trou- 
bles— the  one  who  made  medicine  against  him  and 
his  household. 

Mischief,  or  the  rumor  of  it,  always  propagates 
with  frightful  rapidity  in  a  small  colony;  so  the 
very  air  of  Otter  Creek  village,  even  into  Fort 
Donald,  was  electric  with  a  sense  of  evil  emanating 
from  some  medicine-worker.  It  may  have  been 
chance  or  fate,  or  this  contagious  something,  but 
in  the  space  of  one  moon  three  families  were  as 
entirely  disrupted  as  though  they  had  been  slaves 
in  the  galley  of  fashion. 

The  little  father  who  sometimes  came  among 
them  had  for  years  besought  these  people  to  ab- 
stain from  internal  strife.  "  Love  each  other,  chil- 
dren," he  had  admonished  them.  Bruce's  sermon 
on  the  animating  spirit  of  love  was  also  not  many 
moons  back  in  their  memory;  yet  one  oblique- 

208 


The  Blood   Lilies 

minded  squaw,  devoid  of  human  responsibility, 
trading  on  their  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  medi- 
cine-making, had  set  them  all  at  each  other's 
throats. 

Nistas  had  the  full  conviction  of  the  power  of 
her  craft;  she  really  believed  that  the  happy  sat- 
urnalia of  infelicity  was  fostered  by  her  crooning 
chants  and  her  magic  working. 

But  retribution  was  brewing  for  somebody.  It 
was  Felix  Benoit  who  spoke  of  this  in  the  hearing 
of  Nistas.  Even  Felix  himself  had  an  idea  as  to 
who  was  making  the  medicine — it  was  the  she-bear 
that  was  Wolf  Runner's  squaw. 

Felix  was  rich  in  figurative  vocabulary;  also  he, 
and  all  the  others  who  had  been  athirst — devoid 
of  fire-*water  since  the  crusade  of  big  Sandy,  bore 
malice  against  the  house  of  Wolf  Runner. 

Wicked  old  Nistas  was  quick  to  the  opportunity. 
Surely  it  was  Wolf  Runner's  squaw.  Had  not  all 
the  family  feuds  originated  since  her  coming  from 
Vermilion?  Most  certainly  it  was  that  forest- 
dweller,  Mi-yah-tis,  the  Ugly  One.  Was  not 
Wolf  Runner  of  the  Miteo,  the  sect  of  evil  re- 
pute? 

Like  a  prairie-fire  started  from  the  spark  of  a 
flint  that  falls  in  dry  grass,  this  new  satanic  thing 
swept  through  the  village  with  secret  force. 

Nistas  sought  to  catch  Mi-yah-tis  at  the  medi- 
209 


The  Blood  Lilies 

cine-making ;  and  the  Cree  woman's  glorious  affec- 
tion for  Mas-ki-sis,  sweet  and  pure  as  the  prairie- 
flower's  drinking  of  night-dew,  made  this  design 
possible. 


2IO 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

It  was  spring  by  now.  For  months  the  sun  had 
just  topped  the  hills  to  the  south,  cutting  for  a 
few  hurried  hours  across  the  sky  as  though  he 
feared  WIe-sah-ke-chack,  who  shot  his  bolts  of 
Northern  Lights  athwart  the  arched  vault.  But 
now,  ever  encroaching  on  the  citadel  of  frost,  the 
north,  the  sun  climbed  higher  and  higher  each 
day,  and  coaxed  forth  by  his  gentle  warmth  the 
yellow-gold  offerings  of  pea-vine  and  the  fringed 
crown  of  dandelion,  and  the  slender  stalk  of  prai- 
rie-sunflower that  by  and  by  would  star  the  earth 
like  a  mirrored  sky.  Close-nestling  in  new-grassed 
turf,  like  sapphire  jewels  or  angel's  eyes,  the  violets 
peeped  in  timid  joyousness. 

And  it  was  through  all  this  sweetness  of  creation 
that  NIstas  stole  like  a  serpent  to  the  tepee  of 
Wolf  Runner.  If  she  went  by  the  little  path  to 
the  back,  and  around  the  side,  and  suddenly  in  at 
the  flapping  door,  perhaps  she  might  see  some- 
thing; if  she  did  not,  it  was  only  a  visit,  and  her 
sudden  advent  would  be  nothing;  no  one  ever 
knocked  at  a  tepee  door.     If  she  saw  nothing  of 

211 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  medlclne-making,  she  could  come  again,  many 
times,  and  at  all  hours.  She  might  even  listen  close 
to  the  skin  walls  sometimes. 

But  the  influence  of  Nistas's  master,  who  was 
the  Evil  One,  was  paramount,  and  as  she  thrust 
her  yellow  face  with  his  sign-manual  upon  it 
through  the  door,  Mi-yah-tis  was  crooning  to  the 
little  manikin  that  was  Mas-ki-sis. 

As  the  shadow  thrown  from  the  doorway  fell 
across  the  day-dreamer's  lap,  she  looked  up  in 
affright  and  into  a  pair  of  small  eyes  that  were 
bright  with  the  vindictive  cunning  of  a  wolverine. 
The  birch-bark  Mas-ki-sis  was  secreted,  though 
Mi-yah-tis  knew  the  wicked  Nistas,  staring  at  her 
from  the  sunlight,  had  seen  it. 

Even  from  Wolf  Runner  the  mother  had  kept 
this  holy  thing,  this  sweet  communion  with  her  lit- 
tle Otter,  and  now  there  were  the  eyes  of  Nistas 
peering  into  her  bared  heart — Nistas  who  was 
wicked,  and  of  the  lodge  of  Felix  Benoit. 

The  medicine-worker  stepped  inside  and  talked 
with  the  other  woman,  calling  her  sister;  even 
sought  to  draw  the  mother  of  Mas-ki-sis  into  tales 
of  medicine-making,  that  she  might  tell  to  the 
others  that  the  Ugly  One  boasted  of  her  power 
for  evil. 

But  beyond  her  fancied  communion  with  the 
boy,  Mi-yah-tis  was  as  devoid  of  imagination  as  a 

212 


The  Blood  Lilies 

badger,  as  materialistic  as  a  sand-hill  crane.  Mas- 
ki-sis  was  the  loadstone  that  drew  her  out  of  her 
slave-like  life  of  utility;  apart  from  him  she  found 
the  problem  of  wood-chopping  and  skin-tanning 
and  bead-working  a  tax  of  huge  magnitude  upon 
her  limited  mentality. 

So  Nistas  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  her  own 
evil  imagination  for  tales  of  condemnation.  But 
she  was  capable;  also  had  she  not  seen  the  wife  of 
Wolf  Runner  making  medicine?  Had  not  the 
Cree  woman  sought  to  hide  it  from  her,  fright- 
ened by  the  sudden  discovery? 

The  case  was  too  clear;  the  needed  link  had  been 
forged  in  the  chain  of  evidence;  an  actual  eye-wit- 
ness of  the  squaw's  deviltry  obtained. 

The  superstitious  Indians  and  half-breeds  be- 
came like  a  colony  of  bees  that  had  suddenly  dis- 
covered an  enemy  in  their  midst.  They  planned 
a  most  emphatic  project  of  disapprobation  for  the 
Cree  woman;  but,  as  it  happened,  the  sweet  In- 
fluence of  Mas-ki-sis,  that  seemed  so  visionary  and 
unreal,  saved  her  from  their  troublous  attention. 

For  days,  even  weeks,  the  mother  had  been  pos- 
sessed of  an  Idea  that  her  little  Otter  was  111 — that 
he  was  calling  to  her  night  and  day.  When  she 
brought  forth  the  little  jack-stones  and  coaxed  him 
Into  an  unreal  presence  (all  imaginative) ,  he  would 
sit  huddled  up,  with  his  big  black  eyes  pleading  to 

213 


The  Blood  Lilies 

her  from  a  thin,  pinched  face.  She  had  spoken  to 
Wolf  Runner,  saying  that  Mas-kl-sis  was  ill,  and 
that  she  must  go  to  him. 

And  Wolf  Runner  had  answered:  "  NIchlmous, 
you  are  feeling  long  (which  Is  the  Indian  expres- 
sion for  lonesome) — ^you  are  feeling  long  because 
you  hear  not  the  voice  of  our  little  Otter.  Wolf 
Runner,  too,  would  like  to  see  his  brave.  Perhaps 
when  It  Is  warm,  and  there  Is  a  ration  of  sweet- 
grass  for  the  cayuse  on  the  trail,  we  will  go  to 
Fort  Garry  where  Is  Mas-kl-sls.'* 

And  It  happened  that  when  Wolf  Runner  came 
to  the  tepee  at  sundown  the  day  NIstas  had  looked 
through  the  slltted  door,  Ml-yah-tis  begged  with 
vehemence  that  they  go  to  Fort  Garry. 

Next  day,  laying  In  food  for  the  journey.  Wolf 
Runner  and  his  squaw  trailed  to  the  south,  and  the 
wrath  that  was  maturing  In  the  village  was  robbed 
of  Its  victim. 


214 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

When  the  villagers  knew  of  the  going,  NIstas 
cried:  "  Did  I  not  say  Ml-yah-tis  was  afraid?  Be- 
cause I  have  seen  her  medlcine-making  she  has 
gone  away,  and  now  we  shall  have  peace." 

And  many  of  them  were  glad,  because  If  they 
killed  the  Cree  woman — and  surely  they  would 
have  done  so — the  meddlesome  redcoats,  which 
were  the  police,  would  perhaps  come  and  seek  to 
punish  them  for  their  administration  of  justice. 
But  If  the  wife  of  Wolf  Runner  came  back  again 
to  their  village,  then — ah  I  but  she  would  not ;  for, 
as  NIstas  said,  she  was  afraid. 

Wolf  Runner  had  become  possessed  of  a  cayuse 
and  Red  River  cart,  a  vehicle  which  Is  a  class  In 
itself,  a  very  Ark  In  antiquity  of  design.  A  won- 
drous structure,  guiltless  of  iron,  and  held  together 
by  rawhide  cord,  which  is  shaganappl.  Even  the 
wheels  wore  not  tires,  and  in  their  hubs  was  a  voice 
discordant  as  a  long-throated  loon's. 

For  three  weeks  the  dry  wooden  axles,  athirst 
for  lubricants,  walled  tremulously  as  the  Cree  and 
his  squaw  journeyed  over  the  sun-kissed  prairie 

215 


The  Blood  Lilies 

that  was  sweet  from  the  perfumed  breath  of 
awakened  flowers  and  sedge-grass  and  mint  and 
endless  sage.  As  they  passed,  a  solemn  little  caval- 
cade, myriad  gophers  sat  erect,  like  picket-pins,  and 
stared  in  wonderment  at  the  two  humans. 

The  Cree  woman  was  entirely  oblivious  of  the 
fierce  denunciation  that  attached  to  their  memory 
at  Otter  Creek;  she  knew  nothing  of  the  accusation 
against  her.  When  they  made  camp,  she  untan- 
gled the  hungry  cayuse  from  the  intricate  maze  of 
crude  lashings  that  attached  him  to  the  cart,  hob- 
bled his  forefeet,  and  then  passed  to  her  house- 
hold duties.  Wolf  Runner,  exhausted  by  the 
arduous  role  of  a  brave,  rested  and  smoked  his  kin- 
nikinick. 

And,  so  going,  the  two  came  to  Fort  Garry ;  and, 
like  children,  by  tortuous  questioning,  found  their 
way  to  the  mission  school  at  St.  John's,  in  which 
was  Mas-ki-sis. 

And  Mas-ki-sis  was  ill.  The  ether-waves,  or 
whatever  it  was  of  telepathy,  or  perhaps  It  was 
only  a  mother's  heart-sore  misgiving,  were  the 
truth. 

The  Cree  mother  saw  him  just  as  she  had  con- 
jured him  in  the  tepee  at  Otter  Creek,  thin-faced 
and  large-eyed.  If  she  could  have  seen  the  school- 
room set  out  in  rows  of  human  atoms,  like  the 
onion-beds  of  a  garden,  and  have  breathed  for  an 

216 


The  Blood  Lilies 

hour  the  stifling,  exhausted  air  that  had  been 
sucked  empty  of  all  oxygen,  she,  perhaps,  out  of 
instinct,  might  have  known  how  he  had  been  smit- 
ten. The  windows,  closed  tight  against  the  life- 
giving  prairie-wind,  were  like  walls  of  the  Inqui- 
sition. But  she  saw  nothing  of  these  things,  knew 
nothing  of  them,  just  found  her  little  Otter  a 
stricken  wreck  on  his  small  iron  cot.  And  her  fool- 
ish old  voice  quavered,  and  her  little  eyes,  that 
were  like  bear's  eyes,  became  dim;  and  she  all  but 
fell  to  her  knees  as  she  crouched  over  him,  and  laid 
her  cheek,  that  was  the  color  of  buckskin,  against 
his  gaunt  face. 

Wolf  Runner  stood  erect,  frowning;  his  spirit 
tortured  behind  a  stoical  reserve,  which  was  the 
proper  composure  of  an  Indian  in  the  presence  of 
a  hated  paleface. 

Mas-ki-sis  had  no  complainings;  nothing  but 
the  plaint:  "Take  me  back  to  my  home  at  Ver- 
milion." 

To  him  Vermilion — which  was  but  a  grassless 
circlet  where  the  tepee  of  his  childhood  had  stood 
near  the  great  muskeg — ^was  the  sweetest  place  In 
all  the  world.  Lying  there  on  the  Iron  cot  with 
eyes  shut,  he  had  pictured  the  great  cotton-wood 
that  shaded  the  lodge,  and  had  heard  the  tinkling 
bell-like  song  of  the  starlings  that  used  to  come  In 
families,   and  blink-bllnk-bllnk  to  the   sun   as  it 

217 


The  Blood   Lilies 

dipped  In  the  west  beyond  the  great  muskeg.  Even 
the  solemn  strut  of  the  drab-coated  cow-bird  was 
more  pleasing  than  the  incessant  antics  of  a  canary 
that  homed  in  a  wire  cage  down  in  the  matron's 
room. 

And  in  the  night-time  at  VermiUon  how  often 
he  had  answered  the  whip-poor-will,  and  had 
hooted  back  in  mockery  at  the  solemn  owl  ?  And 
in  the  spring-time  he  had  listened  with  a  thrill  of 
delight  to  the  whistling  whir  of  the  birds  of  ve- 
locity— the  ducks,  as  they  sped  to  the  Northland. 
And  in  autumn  the  bugle-voiced  swans,  high  in 
air;  and  a  little  later  the  "A  honk-honk,  a-honk!  " 
of  the  gray  goose  wedging  the  night,  had  told  him 
of  swirling  snow  in  the  Rockies  that  drove  him 
southward.  And  perhaps  the  next  night  it  would 
be  the  shriller  cry  of  the  waveys. 

And  there  were  pictures  of  the  feathered  moss 
In  the  great  muskeg,  coral-beaded  by  the  red  ber- 
ries of  the  Indian's  tea-plant.  And  there,  too,  in 
the  hollows  where  ran  little  streams,  hung  the 
clusters  of  dark  pearls,  the  black  currants,  that 
were  sweet  to  the  taste  of  the  crested  par- 
tridge. 

There  was  a  thirst  upon  him  that  water  seemed 
not  to  prevail  against.  If  he  could  but  wander, 
like  a  little  bear-cub  amongst  the  saskatoon  bushes, 
and  eat  of  the  luscious  blue-bloomed  berries  that 

218 


The  Blood  Lilies 

the  Great  Spirit  had  made  dear  to  the  heart  of 
every  Indian,  and  of  a  great  abundance,  perhaps 
the  parched  feeling  would  pass  from  his  throat. 
In  another  month  the  saskatoons  would  fruit,  and 
he  begged  to  go  back  to  the  Northland. 

"  Your  little  boy  has  a  bad  cold,"  the  matron 
said,  speaking  through  an  interpreter;  and  her  eyes 
flashed  searchingly  over  the  physique  of  Wolf 
Runner  for  a  flat  chest  that  might  have  lent  a  lung 
weakness  to  the  little  one.  "  For  many  days  he 
has  had  a  cold;  he  seems  to  catch  cold  so  easily. 
No,  it  is  not  our  fault." 

"  It  is  the  fault  of  Mas-ki-sis,"  the  boy  added, 
for  in  the  face  of  his  father  was  the  look  the  Cree 
braves  wore  at  the  Sun-Dance. 

Wolf  Runner  answered  the  interpreter:  "  Mas- 
ki-sis  is  stricken  with  a  sickness.  It  is  not  good 
for  Mas-ki-sis  to  dwell  in  the  lodge  of  the  pale- 
face— Mas-ki-sis  will  go  back  to  the  lodge  of 
Wolf  Runner." 

The  father's  speech  was  simple  and  awkward, 
and  direct;  for  the  way  of  an  Indian  is  to  suffer 
with  few  words. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  get  consent  for  the  lad's 
removal;  even  the  superintendent  of  the  school 
could  understand  that  there  was  little  profit  to  any- 
one in  civihzing  an  Indian  if  he  died  in  the  proc- 
ess.    It  usually  turned  out  that  way,  this  misdi- 

219 


The  Blood  Lilies 

rection  of  the  Creator's  intentions;  but  until  the 
death-seal  was  set  manifest  on  the  victim,  there 
was  always  a  fatuous  belief  that  persistent  en- 
deavor would  correct  this  inconsiderate  habit  of 
Nature. 


220 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

In  two  days  Mas-ki-sis  started  back  to  the 
Northland  in  the  wooden  cart  that  sang  in  his  ears 
a  requiem.  Before  leaving,  the  matron  told  the 
lad  that  he  must  be  very  careful  of  his  health. 
He  hadn't  any,  really ;  the  smothering  school-room 
had  taken  it  all  from  him  as  a  vampire  drains  its 
victim;  but  the  matron,  thinking  not  of  the  incon- 
gruity, gave  him  many  wise  words  of  useless  im- 
port, and  divers  bottles  of  drugs  that  were  as 
efficacious,  almost,  as  the  streamers  of  red  cloth 
Mi-yah-tis  had  tied  to  the  willow  wands  at  Otter 
Creek. 

It  may  be  that  the  scourge  had  aged  Mas-ki-sis 
into  a  wise  tenderness,  for  he  asked  the  matron  to 
tell  not  to  his  mother  that  he  had  the  lung  sick- 
ness— it  would  cause  her  unrest;  and  surely  he 
would  get  strong  again  when  he  went  back  to  the 
spruce  and  the  birch,  and  drank  of  the  wind  that 
came  through  the  sweet-smelling  sage,  and  had  not 
the  hours  of  toil  over  strange  books. 

As  they  journeyed,   Mi-yah-tis  told  Mas-ki-sis 

221 


The  Blood  Lilies 

why  it  was  that  his  strength  had  gone  from  him — 
it  was  because  of  Nistas.  The  mother  had  seen 
it  in  the  wicked  eyes  of  the  medicine-worker  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  little  birch  manikin,  that  was 
Mas-ki-sis,  that  day  at  Otter  Creek. 

The  boy  nodded  his  head  approvingly;  this  be- 
lief would  keep  Mi-yah-tis  from  asking  questions 
that  must  be  answered  with  evasion.  Besides,  his 
mother  knew  many  charms  and  medicines  that 
would  stop  the  evil  influence  of  Nistas;  she  would 
be  happy  thinking  he  would  soon  grow  strong 
again.  Therefore  he  answered:  "  Yes,  someone  is 
making  medicine  against  me — perhaps  it  is  Nistas ; 
or  perhaps  it  is  the  bear  that  Wolf  Runner  killed. 
The  wolves  got  the  head  because  I  did  not  put  it 
on  the  tree  so  that  the  spirits  of  the  woods  might 
not  be  angry.  Wolf  Runner  told  me  to  put  the 
head  of  muskwa  on  the  lone  pine  at  Vermilion, 
but  I  forgot." 

Each  day  the  Cree  woman's  heart  shed  a  little 
of  its  despair,  for  the  panacea  that  was  of  Heaven, 
the  prairie-wind,  balm-laden  because  of  the  herbs 
and  the  flowers,  crept  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
lungs  of  Mas-ki-sis  till  it  reddened  the  thin  blood 
a  trifle,  and  he  grew  stronger. 

Wolf  Runner  was  sullen  in  his  bitterness  against 
the  palefaces.  Though  Mas-ki-sis  could  move 
about,  all  the  elasticity  of  youth  had  gone  from  his 

222 


The  Blood  Lilies 

sinews,  and  he  was  like  a  willow  bow  that  had  lost 
its  spring. 

The  Indian  was  even  angered  against  the  boy, 
or  rather  impatient  of  his  uselessness.  Mas-ki-sis, 
who  was  to  have  been  a  brave,  a  mighty  hunter,  a 
tireless  tracker  of  mooswa,  was  now  but  a  squaw 
child.  In  vain  the  mother  clapped  her  big  scrawny 
hands  in  delight,  and  called  the  father's  attention 
to  every  little  symptom  of  improvement  in  the  boy's 
condition. 

At  every  camping-ground  she  put  out  the  pro- 
pitiating streamers  of  red  cloth.  She  even  spared 
from  their  meagre  commissariat  offerings  of  food 
to  the  spirits,  which  were  promptly  purloined  by 
the  pair  of  whiskey-jacks  that  had  cast  in  their 
fortunes  with  them. 

Mas-ki-sis  had  shouted  with  delight  at  the  first 
shrill  piping  note  of  these  thievish  jays.  That  was 
the  first  day  out  from  Winnipeg;  whiskey-jack  was 
an  old  friend,  a  part  of  the  boy's  woodland  life. 


223 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

Never  was  there  such  a  fight  against  the  grim 
destroyer. 

In  the  heart  of  the  Ugly  One  there  was  forever 
and  ever  the  subdued  cry  of  Hagar.  If  Wolf 
Runner  had  not  been  there,  this  wilderness  of  the 
west  would  have  echoed  with  her  cry  of  despair. 

They  trailed  slowly,  because  Mi-yah-tis  was  al- 
ways finding  sweet  water,  or  dry  wood,  or  good 
camping-places  with  buffalo-grass  loved  of  the 
cayuse,  to  the  end  that  Mas-ki-sis  should  not  tire 
from  long  drives. 

When  they  came  a  little  farther  into  the  North- 
land, where  the  grass  reached  higher  in  its  growth, 
Mas-ki-sis  slept  on  beds  that  were  like  down. 
With  strong  love-hands  the  mother,  going  into  the 
low  meadows,  plucked  sweet-grass,  and  mint,  and 
yarrow,  and  made  a  nest  for  her  little  Otter. 
Sometimes  it  was  the  feathery  ends'  of  spruce  bows 
woven  into  the  smoothness  of  cloth;  and  the  in- 
cense of  its  balsam  lulled  him  to  sleep  as  though 
red  poppies  kissed  his  weary  lids  with  opium  lips. 

In  the  school  they  had  taught  him  from  books 
224 


The  Blood  Lilies 

of  the  true  God — -the  God  of  the  soul;  and  now 
he  was  back  in  the  embrace  of  Pan,  who  was  called 
Manltou.  And  while  his  little  pagan  mind  groped 
fitfully  in  the  dark  over  the  hard  lesson  that  was 
impossible  of  his  solving  until  he  fell  asleep,  the 
Ugly  One  sat  beside  his  bed,  and  wondered  if  the 
bad  medicine  of  Nistas's  making  had  been  broken 
by  her  charms. 

Wolf  Runner,  who  had  a  Company  trade-gun, 
shot  prairie-chicken  and  ducks ;  and  the  pilgrimage 
lay  through  Utopia.  That  was  till  they  came  to 
Little  Beaver  River. 

It  had  rained  back  at  the  birthplace  of  Little 
Beaver,  and  he  was  a  brawling,  turbulent  stream 
of  muddy  water. 

Over  the  ford  Little  Beaver  swirled  in  sullen 
sweeps,  lashing  at  the  clay  banks. 

Wolf  Runner  looked  darkly  at  the  crossing. 
Not  often  he  hesitated  because  of  difficulty;  and 
there  was  neither  feed  nor  wood  nor  anything  to 
make  it  a  place  of  good  camping. 

Then  he  took  the  ford,  urging  the  reluctant 
cayuse  with  a  heavy  quirt.  Half-way  the  water 
washed  the  animal's  belly;  the  ford  had  shifted, 
and  in  the  coffee-colored  flood  there  was  no  sign 
whether  it  was  up-stream  or  down-stream. 

That  it  was  gone  demoralized  the  cayuse,  and 
he  tried  to  turn;  this  moved  the  cart  back  into 

225 


The  Blood  Lilies 

deeper  water,  and  the  flood  lifted  it  till  its  wheels 
beat  a  quivering  tattoo  on  the  bottom. 

Mi-yah-tis  raised  Mas-ki-sis,  and  held  him  with 
one  strong  arm.  They  would  be  together,  so  be  it 
they  reached  the  other  side;  or  even  if  they  were 
claimed  of  the  waters,  they  would  still  be  together. 

Wolf  Runner,  in  his  cool  wisdom,  seemed 
apathetic,  for  he  sat  still,  and  waited  for  the  re- 
turn of  the  cayuse's  wandering  sense.  One  stroke 
of  the  quirt  and  the  frenzied  animal  would  twist 
them  to  destruction.  The  cart  was  carrying  down- 
stream; the  water  banked  against  its  side  was 
sweeping  to  their  knees,  and  carrying  off  with  a 
jubilant  rush  their  goods.  Now  the  cart  floated, 
and  the  grasp  of  the  stream  on  its  upper  side  was 
sucking  it  down. 

Wolf  Runner  called  to  the  Cree  woman,  and 
they  both  leaned  far  over  the  other  side.  This  was 
three  seconds  of  doing. 

While  the  cayuse  had  backed  the  cart  himself 
in  his  affright,  it  seemed  a  proper  horse  thing  to 
do;  now  something  was  pulling  him  back  into  the 
cold,  depressing  waters — it  was  the  floating  cart — 
and  his  obstinacy  resented  the  interference.  He 
plunged  forward,  and  Wolf  Runner  cheered  him. 
The  cayuse  actually  swam,  and  the  stream  was 
rushing  through  the  cart  like  a  mill-race.  Then 
the  horse  struck  footing,  and,  splashing  the  churned 

226 


The  Blood  Lilies 

waters  like  a  paddie-wheel,  he  raced  up  the  dip  of 
the  bank,  and  they  were  freed  from  the  clutch  of 
Little  Beaver. 

In  the  cart  there  was  nothing  but  the  humans, 
their  blankets,  and  Wolf  Runner's  gun,  which  had 
been  lashed  to  the  rail;  just  these,  and  the  copper 
tea-pail  which  swung  by  its  bale  from  a  stake.  The 
blankets  were  on  the  seat,  anchored  by  their  weight. 
Little  Beaver  had  failed  of  their  lives,  but  had 
sucked  into  his  voracious  maw  their  food  and  all 
else. 

The  Indian  looked  ruefully  at  his  looted  ve- 
hicle ;  most  paramount  was  the  loss  of  the  commis- 
sariat. He  had  his  gun.  A  grunt  of  despair  es- 
caped him;  his  gun  powder-horn,  even  the  bag  of 
shot  and  tin  of  powder  that  had  been  with  the 
other  supplies,  were  now  soaking  somewhere  in 
the  muddy  waters  of  Little  Beaver. 

Instinctively  the  Indian  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
beaded  fire-bag  that  hung  from  his  belt;  his  fingers 
touched  a  box  of  matches,  and  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief.  It  was  a  mitigation  of  the  dis- 
aster. Also  there  was  his  tin  box  of  gun-caps 
—  glinting  baubles  with  no  powder  for  the 
gun. 

Disclaiming  all  responsibility,  the  erratic  cayuse 
plucked  complacently  at  the  prairie-grass. 

Mi-yah-tis  was  still  clutching  the  little  boy  con- 


The  Blood  Lilies 

vulsively;  his  presence  safe,  sank  into  insignifi- 
cance the  prospect  of  hunger.  Her  life  had  been 
composed  of  alternate  seasons  of  starvation  and 
rich  feeding;  they  would  manage  somehow. 

Leaving  the  cart,  Wolf  Runner  followed  the 
downward  sweep  of  the  stream  for  a  mile  in  search 
of  wreckage. 

One  solitary  piece  of  bacon  rewarded  his  effort. 
On  his  return  they  pushed  disconsolately  along  the 
trail. 

That  night  their  hunger  absorbed  the  salvaged 
bacon.  There  was  not  even  the  usual  waste  of 
gravy  for  the  supper  of  the  birds,  whiskey-jack, 
and  his  wife. 

In  the  morning,  like  the  children  in  the  wilder- 
ness, they  gazed  upon  a  wide  expanse  of  territory 
with  eyes  tense  from  the  constrained  longing  of 
their  stomachs.  There  was  not  even  any  cord  or 
sinew  to  make  a  snare,  or  the  hungry  ones  would 
have  snatched  many  bead-eyed  gophers  from  their 
holes.  An  evil  chance  had  caused  Wolf  Runner  to 
leave  the  buffalo-knife  that  usually  hung  at  his 
belt  in  the  cart  that  day,  else  he  might  have  made 
a  snare  from  his  old  shaganappi  harness. 

It  was  a  mocking  fate.  On  the  earth  ran  much 
food,  and  in  the  air  winged  prairie-chickens  and 
plover  and  sand-piper  and  curlew  and  ducks,  yet 
they  could  do  nothing  but  plod  on,  mile  after  mile, 

228 


The  Blood  Lilies 

with  the  desolation  of  hunger  over  them,  hoping 
that  they  might  meet  a  chance  traveller. 

With  squeaking  complaints  and  astonished  re- 
vilings  the  blue-gray  whiskey-jacks  upbraided  the 
people  that  neither  ate  nor  shared  food  with  any- 
one. And  at  noon,  when  the  humans  sat  silent  and 
morose  while  the  horse  fed,  whiskey-jack  perched 
on  the  cart  and  peered  down  at  them  in  deep  dis- 
gust. He,  too,  would  starve,  following  such  a  beg- 
garly outfit. 

When  Wolf  Runner's  party  started  again,  the 
jays,  with  shrill  invective,  deserted  them. 

*'  Whiskey-jack  Is  going,"  Mas-kl-sis  said  to  his 
mother;  "  he  has  flown  away  because  we  have  no 
food.  I  wish  I  could  fly  to  where  there  Is  eating 
— I  am  so  hungry." 

"  Never  mind,  little  one,"  Mi-yah-tis  answered, 
"  we  will  soon  come  to  Egg  Lake,  where  there  are 
many  nests  of  the  mallard." 

The  mother  knew  that  it  would  be  quite  two 
days  before  they  would  come  to  the  ducks'  breed- 
ing-grounds. Even  then  the  eggs  might  all  be 
hatched;  but  she  tried  to  steel  the  boy's  heart 
against  the  depressing  hunger. 

Just  beyond  their  reach  was  food,  delicious,  lim- 
itless. They  were  like  city  paupers  that  gazed  out 
of  starved  eyes  through  glass  barriers  that  guarded 
stores  of  bread  and  meats. 

229 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  saskatoon  berries  were  of  a  tantalizing  un- 
ripeness; the  tall  bushes  were  white  with  a  plethora 
of  uncolored  fruit. 

And  little  Mas-ki-sis's  fevered  mouth  had  set 
him  dreaming  of  nights  for  the  full-juiced  saska- 
toons. Now  he  had  come  to  them  in  unexpected 
want,  and  they  mocked  him. 


230 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

All  that  day  Mi-yah-tis,  driven  to  It  by  the 
pathetic  hunger  of  her  little  pinch-faced  Otter, 
was  thinking  of  a  sin  against  her  gods.  Ahead  of 
them,  close  beside  the  trail,  at  the  little  stream  of 
Towatano,  rested  Grass  Head,  the  Cree.  Grass 
Head  was  possessed  of  powder  and  shot,  and  other 
things  which  they  had  not ;  but  Grass  Head  would 
never  offer  them  a  portion,  for  he  was  dead.  For 
two  moons  he  had  slept  the  long  sleep,  peacefully 
cached  high  on  the  platform  which  was  his  bier; 
and  on  the  posts  of  the  cache  were  his  gun,  and 
the  horns  of  powder  and  shot.  He  had  been  a 
minor  chief,  and  his  tribe  had  sent  him  well 
equipped  over  the  long  trail  to  the  Happy  Hunt- 
ing Ground.  The  Cree  woman  had  seen  this 
cache  of  the  dead  on  their  way  to  Winnipeg;  now 
she  remembered  with  startling  distinctness  every 
detail.  The  tightly  corked  buffalo-horn  would  cer- 
tainly be  full  of  powder. 

The  Ugly  One  knew  that  her  brave  would  die 
like  a  starved  wolf  rather  than  desecrate  his  tribes- 

231 


The  Blood  Lilies 

man's  grave ;  so  would  she,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
but  would  not  little  Mas-kl-sis  succumb  before 
they — was  not  he  dearer  to  her  than  the  pleasure 
of  the  gods,  the  traditions  of  her  people?  For 
him  could  not  she  almost  risk  the  anger  of  the 
guardian  spirits  of  the  air? 

This  was  the  evil  act  she  pondered  over  as  they 
travelled  In  the  wailing,  creaking  cart  through  the 
land  all  beautiful. 

At  times  they  were  In  great  lakes  of  blood-red 
waters — small  seas  of  blood  lilies,  yellow-hearted 
and  crimson-lipped. 

Mas-kl-sis  bathed  his  eyes,  his  face,  with  the 
flowers;  he  held  them  to  his  heart  In  rapture. 

"Waugh!  Little  Brave!"  cried  Mi-yah-tis; 
*'  'tis  right  you  love  them.  Manitou  calls  them  to 
grow  from  the  blood  of  the  Cree  braves  who  fell 
in  battle.     They  are  the  flowers  of  bravery." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  at  once  cried  Mas-ki-sis ;  *'  I 
can  wait  till  we  come  to  the  lake  where  are  many 
nests." 

"  Huh  I  Little  Otter,  the  red  flowers  breathe 
the  spirit  of  the  dead  braves." 

The  sun  was  In  the  west  as  they  passed  Towa- 
tano  and  Grass  Head's  place  of  rest.  It  threw  a 
sombre  shade  from  the  cache  across  the  trail;  and 
as  Its  shadow  darkened  the  eyes  of  Ml-yah-tis  she 
shuddered. 

232 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Wolf  Runner,  looking  not  at  the  bier,  but  with 
his  eyes  straight  ahead  along  the  trail,  said,  in  a 
low  voice :  "  A  friend  who  is  dead  is  of  little  use. 
If  Grass  Head  were  alive  he  would  give  Wolf 
Runner  of  his  powder,  for  we  are  hungry." 

When  they  had  gone  a  little  distance,  the  Ugly 
One  asked  Wolf  Runner  to  make  camp.  But  he 
wished  to  push  farther  from  the  spirit-haunted 
place  where  rested  the  dead  Cree;  so  a  little  more 
of  travel  and  he  yielded  to  the  squaw. 

Never  had  the  Indian  been  so  helpless,  so 
mocked  at  by  the  red  gods  of  the  chase.  With  a 
knife  he  could  have  done  many  things;  he  could 
have  made  a  bow  from  the  willow  growing  by  the 
creek  beds ;  he  could  have  made  a  little  figure- four 
deadfall  for  gopher;  but  his  hands  were  as  empty 
as  a  babe's  and  as  helpless. 

The  cayuse,  prime  cause  of  the  disaster,  grunt- 
ing in  satisfaction  as  he  fed,  mocked  their  starva- 
tion. If  they  met  no  one  on  the  trail — if  they 
came  to  no  nests  with  eggs — well,  perhaps  the 
sneering  beast  would  attain  to  a  new  use. 

As  a  dog  might  have  done.  Wolf  Runner  curled 
himself  up  to  smother  in  sleep  the  yearning  for 
food  which  was  not. 

Holding  the  boy's  head  on  her  lap,  Mi-yah-tis 
watched  for  the  slumbering  of  her  husband. 

"  Sleep,  little  one,"  she  said  to  Mas-ki-sis,  draw- 
233 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ing  the  blanket  about  him;  "sleep  your  hunger 
away,  little  Otter,  even  as  Wolf  Runner  does." 

Then  she  moved  to  the  other  side  of  their  camp- 
fire,  covertly  watching  the  boy.  Yes,  he,  too,  was 
at  rest,  she  thought,  and  rising,  stole  away. 

As  the  Ugly  One  slipped  silently  from  the  fire- 
light, the  emptiness  that  was  because  of  her  going 
awoke  the  fitfully  sleeping  lad,  and  his  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  movements  of  Mi-yah-tis.  Now  with 
long  strides  she  was  hurrying  down  the  back  trail. 

Mas-ki-sis  arose,  and  stepping  with  the  light- 
ness of  a  bird,  followed.  Clear  of  Wolf  Runner 
he  went  faster.     Presently  he  called,  "  Mother!  '* 

"What  is  it,  little  one?"  the  mother  asked, 
when  he  had  reached  to  her  side. 

He  put  his  hand  in  hers  and  answered:  "  I,  too, 
am  going  to  the  sleeping  Grass  Head." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  of  this  thing,  little  Otter?  " 
the  squaw  asked,  marvelling. 

"  Mas-ki-sis  saw  Mi-yah-tis  when  her  eyes  were 
on  the  powder  of  Grass  Head,"  he  answered.  "  I 
will  talk  to  Chief  Grass  Head,  and  tell  him  we  are 
starving ;  and  if  the  spirits  are  not  angry,  then  you 
will  take  the  powder  and  shot,  mother,  and  to- 
gether we  will  bring  them  back  to  Wolf  Runner." 

The  little  hand  that  was  in  the  Cree  woman's 
was  warm  and  did  not  tremble,  though  hers  that 
held  it  shook  in  fear. 

234 


The  Blood  Lilies 

As  they  went  forward  to  the  abode  of  dread, 
the  moonlight  twisting  their  shadows  into  gro- 
tesque demons,  the  boy's  presence  comforted  the 
Cree  woman,  who  was  sore  afraid. 

"  It  may  bring  evil  to — "  Mi-yah-tis  checked 
herself.  She  was  thinking  of  the  red  moon  with 
its  holding  of  trouble  for  Mas-ki-sis.  *'  Manitou 
may  be  angry  if  we  take  the  powder,"  she  finished. 

"  The  white  teacher  at  the  mission  told  me  that 
when  anyone  died  he  went  to  God,  which  is  Man- 
itou, and  did  not  need  powder  nor  shot  nor  the 
gun.  So  do  not  be  afraid,  mother;  Grass  Head 
is  not  hungry,  as  we  are,  and  will  not  be  angry  if 
we  take  his  powder." 

"  It  may  be  true,  little  one;  but  if  the  spirits 
call  to  us  in  anger  we  will  go  away,  and  leave  the 
powder  and  remain  hungry." 

The  four  crotched  posts  of  Grass  Head's  cache 
stood  black  in  the  uncertain  moonlight,  looking 
like  Indian  sentinels  guarding  the  dead  chief. 

The  two,  mother  and  son,  had  come  to  it  silently, 
the  spirit  fear  that  was  over  them  hushing  the 
clamor  of  their  tongues.  They  were  standing  in 
the  trail  gazing  with  awe  upon  the  death-temple 
they  were  about  to  desecrate. 

"Ho,  Chief  Grass  Head!"  called  Mas-ki-sis 
from  where  he  stood  in  the  trail;  "Wolf  Run- 
ner and   Mi-yah-tis  and  Mas-ki-sis,   who  are  of 

235 


The  Blood   Lilies 

your  people,  are  starving.  The  River  Spirit  has 
taken  the  food  from  Wolf  Runner  and  we  are  hun- 
gry. O  Chief !  give  us  of  your  powder,  that  Wolf 
Runner  may  make  a  kill  of  many  birds.  Be  not 
angry,  Grass  Head,  for  we  are  hungry." 

Where  had  the  little  one  got  all  this  wisdom, 
Mi-yah-tis  was  asking  herself;  surely  the  spirits  of 
the  air  would  take  pity  on  Mas-ki-sis,  who  was  but 
a  child. 

"Come,  mother,"  the  boy  said;  "see,  Grass 
Head  is  not  angry." 

Hesitatingly,  the  woman  and  the  boy  stepped 
from  the  trail  to  where  the  horns  of  powder  and 
shot  hung. 

As  Mi-yah-tis  stretched  her  big  arm  upward  for 
the  black  dust  of  desire,  Mas-ki-sis  was  chanting: 
"  O  Great  Chief!  be  not  angry " 

At  that  his  voice  choked  in  his  throat;  the  hot 
blood  surged  to  his  brain,  then  ebbed  away,  and 
left  him  cold  and  powerless  in  fear.  The  Cree 
woman's  arm  dropped  like  a  broken  limb. 

Above,  the  chief,  long  dead,  slowly  raised  his 
head  with  a  soft  rustle,  and  peered  down  at  them 
from  wide  eyes  that  glinted  green  and  yellow  and 
red  in  the  silver  moonlight.  There  was  a  fierce 
questioning  look  in  the  eyes  as  they  searched  these 
two  who  came  in  the  night,  as  if  asking  why  they 
had  come  to  the  sacred  grave  of  a  dead  chief. 

236 


'iM$ 

^1 

^■> 

^T^^^^^^^^BWW^  V  _^fa__^^    IMIJML 

I^Mi^S 

^^^H 

^^^^^^^^1 

^m    * 

Mas-ki-sis  was  chanting  :    **0  Great  Chief!  be  not  angry — ** 


The  Blood   Lilies 

The  two  were  powerless  of  speech  in  their  ter- 
ror; they  were  fascinated;  their  silence  drew  a 
shrill,  harsh  cackle  that  was  a  laugh,  or  a  cry  of 
anger,  from  the  face  on  the  bier. 

The  voice  startled  the  huge  squaw  into  vo- 
lition ;  she  turned  heavily  to  run,  still  clutching  the 
hand  of  Mas-ki-sis. 

As  she  fled,  the  owner  of  the  eyes,  that  was  only 
a  silly  marsh-owl,  spread  his  fan-like  wings  and 
swooped  off  into  the  haze  of  the  prairie, 

Mi-yah-tis  was  on  the  trail,  her  big  flat  feet  pat- 
ting it  with  wondrous  activity. 

"  Stop,  mother!  "  panted  the  boy,  the  spirit  of 
a  brave  chiding  him  for  his  empty  fear.  "  Stop, 
mother;  it  is  only  oo-hoos  (the  owl),  and  we  have 
not  taken  the  powder." 

The  squaw  had  been  shocked  out  of  her  bor- 
rowed bravery;  she  wanted  to  return  to  Wolf  Run- 
ner, leaving  the  powder  of  Grass  Head  with  the 
chief.  But  the  boy  argued:  "  Is  it  not  true  that 
Grass  Head  has  gone  away  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Ground — is  with  God,  as  the  teacher  said?  Would 
the  owl  rest  on  the  cache  if  Grass  Head  were  not 
gone  away?  Mas-ki-sis  will  get  the  powder — only 
he  can't  reach  it.  Come,  we  will  take  it  to  Wolf 
Runner." 

Again  they  went  back,  strangely  enough  with 
less  fear  than  before.    The  emptiness  of  their  ter- 

237 


The  Blood  Lilies 

ror  because  of  the  silly,  short-eared  little  owl  drove 
from  the  mind  of  Mi-yah-tis  something  of  the 
spirit  dread. 

With  quick  steps  she  reached  the  cache,  mutter- 
ing to  herself  over  and  over,  "  Manitou,  Manitou, 
Manitou !  '' 

Grasping  the  horns,  her  eyes  always  on  the 
ground,  she  plucked  them  from  the  post,  and,  turn- 
ing with  abruptness,  hurried  to  the  trail  that  led  to 
where  Wolf  Runner  slept  by  the  little  fire  and 
dreamed  of  much  food. 

Mi-yah-tis  hid  the  booty  in  her  dress,  saying  to 
the  boy :  ''  When  the  sun  has  made  us  all  of  quiet 
mind,  I  will  give  the  powder  to  Wolf  Runner." 

As  they  approached  their  camp  the  Indian 
started  up ;  but  he  thought  they  had  been  for  wood 
or  water,  and,  with  a  querulous  complaint  because 
of  his  hunger,  he  slept  again,  oblivious  of  the  fan- 
tastic spirits  of  imagination  that  tortured  the  Ugly 
One  into  a  wide-eyed  restlessness. 

The  wanderers  up  out  of  Elim  were  not  more 
astonished  the  first  morning  of  the  manna  shower 
than  was  Wolf  Runner  when  he  awoke  and  found 
himself  possessed  of  the  power  to  obtain  food.  He 
was  also  frightened;  some  great  evil  would  surely 
accrue  to  them  because  of  the  powder-horns  that 
were  robbed  from  the  dead  chief.  But  hunger 
to  the  point  of  starvation  is  hunger  indeed;  also, 

238 


The  Blood  Lilies 

he  had  not  stolen  from  Grass  Head.  If  Mi-yah- 
tis  suffered  for  the  theft,  well,  it  was  of  her  own 
doing. 

They  had  nothing  in  which  to  carry  the  powder 
and  shot  unless  they  retained  the  horns;  and  Wolf 
Runner  declared  he  would  put  them  back  on  the 
cache  some  time. 

That  day  they  feasted  as  only  starved  Indians 
can  feast  when  there  is  plenty. 


239 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

It  was  August  when  the  trail-wearied  Wolf 
Runner  outfit  came  once  again  to  Otter  Creek  at 
Fort  Donald;  and  the  mischief  that  had  smoul- 
dered almost  smokeless  fanned  suddenly  into  a  fire 
of  fierce  resentment. 

After  the  going  of  Wolf  Runner,  big  Sandy 
had  heard  the  malicious  slander  of  the  Cree 
woman's  medicine-making.  He  felt  sure  that  it 
was  a  manifestation  of  revenge  originating  in  the 
family  of  Felix  Benoit;  so  he  kept  his  wise  old 
eyes  open  for  the  return  of  the  accused  ones,  that 
he  might  ward  off  the  trouble  that  would  possibly 
be  visited  upon  their  quite  innocent  heads. 

When  news  of  the  Indian's  return  flashed 
through  Fort  Donald,  surrounded  by  an  atmos- 
phere of  threats,  big  Sandy  and  Malcolm  went  to 
the  tepee  of  Wolf  Runner. 

With  rare  delicacy  the  old  Scotchman  said  noth- 
ing of  the  medicine-making,  but  asked  Wolf  Run- 
ner to  go  back  to  Vermilion.  The  request  only 
inflamed  the  sullen  Indian's  mind,  and  aroused  him 
to  an  eloquent  denunciation  of  his  enemies. 

240 


The  Blood  Lilies 

There  was  something  fearfully  tragic  In  Wolf 
Runner's  rhetoric  as  his  own  words  lashed  him  to 
articulate  fury.  Slowly  enough  he  began  to  speak : 
"  Once  my  people,  the  Wood  Crees,  were  a  mighty 
tribe;  to  be  a  Cree  was  to  be  a  chief.  When  the 
Blackfeet  stole  horses,  they  stole  from  other 
tribes;  when  they  stole  from  the  Crees  they  died. 
My  people  were  as  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  they 
were  as  the  grass  of  the  plain,  and  our  children 
were  as  the  yellow  star-flowers  that  greet  the  eye 
everywhere.  The  prairie  thronged  with  buffalo, 
and  the  buffalo  were  sweet  eating,  and  made  us 
strong,  and  we  were  happy;  we  had  the  buffalo- 
skins  to  make  tepees  that  were  warm,  and  we 
laughed  at  the  cold  wind,  and  the  snow,  and  the 
rain. 

"  Our  women  were  chaste;  and  In  all  the  land 
there  were  not  more  women  whose  noses  had  been 
cut  off  than  this,"  and  Wolf  Runner  held  aloft  the 
spread  fingers  of  his  two  hands,  which  meant  that 
in  all  the  Cree  tribe  were  not  ten  women  who  had 
paid  the  debt  of  unchastlty  by  the  elision  of  a  nose. 

"  The  sun  warmed  the  blood  of  the  earth  till  It 
grew  grass  for  our  horses,  and  the  buffalo,  and  the 
antelope;  we  listened  to  Manltou;  and  our  medi- 
cine-men made  medicine  to  the  evil  spirits  to  keep 
from  us  their  anger. 

"  We  were  braves,  and  in  the  Happy  Hunting 
241 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Ground  are  many  of  our  tribe  that  chase  the  buf- 
falo. 

"  But  the  paleface  came  among  us,  even  as  Wie- 
sah-ke-chack  said  the  gray-eyed  people  would 
come,  and  what  is  my  tribe  now — what  are  the 
Crees?  The  palefaces  took  our  lands,  and  our 
horses,  and  our  women,  and  the  l)raves  of  my 
tribe  are  as  squaws,  and  work  as  squaws.  And 
even  now  they  are  lean  fed  like  famished  wolves, 
and  our  women  are  unchaste  as  the  white  women. 

"  When  the  palefaces  came  first  to  our  lodges, 
being  few  in  numbers  and  weak,  my  people  fed 
them;  now,  if  an  Indian  asks  food  of  the  pale- 
face he  is  told  '  marse !  *  as  we  speak  to  our  dogs. 
Unless  a  brave  becomes  as  a  squaw  and  works,  he 
must  die  in  the  cold  time,  for  the  buffalo  have  been 
driven  away  and  corralled,  so  that  the  Indian  may 
be  in  the  power  of  the  paleface. 

"  Many  moons  ago  did  not  your  redcoats  come 
to  the  tepee  of  Wolf  Runner  with  a  lie  in  their 
mouths  that  he  was  selling  the  fire-water,  and  steal- 
ing their  horses — and  was  not  Wolf  Runner  shut 
in  a  stone  corral  ? 

"  But,  Sandy  Ogama,  that  of  which  Wolf  Run- 
ner has  spoken,  is  as  nothing  to  the  great  misery 
that  has  now  come  to  his  heart;  the  Big  Ogama,  the 
ogama  of  the  Great  White  Mother,  kept  Mas-ki- 
sis  at  Fort  Garry,  and  now  Mas-ki-sis,  who  is  son 

242 


The  Blood  Lilies 

of  Wolf  Runner,  and  would  have  been  a  great 
brave,  will  soon  pass  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Ground.  The  heart  of  Wolf  Runner  is  heavy  with 
this  knowledge;  and  his  heart  is  full  of  evil  for 
the  palefaces  because  of  this.  Perhaps  when  Man- 
itou  calls  Mas-ki-sis,  when  the  cold  spirit  comes  to 
the  lodge  and  steals  Mas-ki-sis  away,  perhaps 
Wolf  Runner  will  become  even  as  a  fierce  wolf, 
and  send  many  palefaces  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Ground." 

"  Don't  let  this  wickedness  possess  you,  broth- 
er," said  Cameron,  in  Cree.  Then,  relapsing  into 
his  Scotch-flavored  English,  he  spoke  to  Malcolm, 
for  the  Indian,  exhausted  by  his  passion,  was  silent. 

"  Malcolm,  lad,"  said  Sandy,  "  the  poor  de'il 
o'  a  pagan  haes  muckle  truth  on  his  side,  though 
it's  fair  foolishness  his  talkin'  o'  takin'  life.  It 
was  no  the  intent  o'  the  Lord  for  the  Injun  to  be 
hoosed,  or  worked  like  an  ass  or  an  ox.  An' 
schoolin'  's  fair  thrown  awa'  on  such.  Hoosed  up 
they  jus'  die  like  flies  in  a  bottle;  an'  the  poor 
bairnie  is  just  stricken  wi'  the  lung  disease,  an' 
that's  the  God's  truth — poor  little  bairnie !  " 

"You're  right,  father,"  said  Malcolm;  "a 
nichie's  a  thousand  times  better  nor  a  breed.  A 
breed's  part  Injun,  part  white  man,  an'  altogether 
devil." 

The  Indian  broke  in  again.  "  And  now  Wolf 
243 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Runner  is  to  go  back  to  Vermilion  because  he  is 
old,  like  an  outcast  buffalo-bull  that  has  no  place 
in  the  herd;  and  there  Mas-ki-sis  will  die." 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  to  say,"  declared  Sandy  to 
Malcolm.  "  The  breeds  and  nichies  here  are  like 
a  pack  of  coyotes;  they're  thinkin'  Wolf  Runner's 
squaw  is  makin'  medicine,  an'  it's  just  dootful  but 
what  there'll  be  murder  done." 

"  We'll  get  Factor  Gourelot  to  give  Wolf  Run- 
ner a  job  of  tradin'  at  Vermilion,"  said  Malcolm, 
a  bright  thought  taking  him.  "  An'  we  must  keep 
a  sharp  eye  that  the  post  people  don't  break  out 
against  him  afore  he  gets  away." 

Sandy  asked  Wolf  Runner  to  keep  to  himself 
for  a  time,  and  if  anything  went  wrong  to  come  to 
him. 

Mas-ki-sis  had  understood  a  great  deal  of  big 
Sandy's  English ;  Cameron  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  little  lad's  having  been  at  the  mission  school 
for  some  months. 

As  the  two  white  men  walked  away,  Malcolm 
said,  "  Why  didn't  ye  tell  the  nichie,  father,  that 
the  camp  was  all  possessed  of  the  idea  his  squaw 
was  makin'  medicine?  " 

"  I'll  no  hae  onything  tae  do  wi'  such  godless 
obsarvance,"  declared  the  father;  "  I'd  no  even 
mention  It.  An',  foreby,  if  I  spoke  o'  It  to  Wolf 
Runner  while  he's  greetin'  ower  the  bairn,  most 

244 


The  Blood  Lilies 

like  he'd  just  mak'  trouble  wi'  the  ithers.  We'll 
jus'  get  him  awa',  quiet  like.  I'm  morally  in  charge 
o'  Fort  Donald,  an'  I  dinna  want  bluidshed." 

Mas-ki-sis  watched  the  father  and  son  as  they 
went  away.  When  they  had  passed  slowly  out 
of  his  sight,  he  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  across 
the  prairie  to  where  the  red-splashed  sky  still 
flushed  from  the  amorous  kiss  of  the  fleeing  sun. 
Miles  away  on  the  western  horizon  a  chain  of 
hills  lay  draped  in  the  red  light  like  a  city.  Mas- 
ki-sis  was  picturing  them  into  the  wondrous  build- 
ings he  had'seen  at  Fort  Garry.  In  his  hill-city, 
now  silhouetted  against  the  crimson  west,  were 
church-spires,  slender  pencilled  pyramids  of  pur- 
ple. They  were  really  giant  spruce  and  cedars  that 
cut  the  sky-line,  but  the  boy  was  building  them  into 
great  churches  and  cathedrals.  And  perhaps  he 
would  soon  have  to  leave  all  these  beautiful  things 
— the  summer  sky  and  the  long-drawn-out  evenings 
that  the  Sun-God  painted  with  bright  ochre  from 
the  land  of  spirits ;  pass  from  the  perfume  of  the 
sweet-grass  and  prairie-clover,  the  call  of  the  birds, 
the  heart-thrill  of  the  chase,  the  tender  caress  of 
his  mother — leave  it  all,  and  go  to  the  Happy 
Hunting  Ground,  or,  as  he  had  been  told  at  the 
school  in  Fort  Garry,  mayhap  he  would  be  called 
to  the  white  man's  heaven. 

A  wondrous  lot  of  thinking  had  come  to  the  lit- 
245 


The  Blood  Lilies 

tie  man  since  the  school  matron  had  told  him  he 
must  be  very  careful  or  he  would  die  of  the  lung 
sickness.  He  remembered  there  had  been  tears  in 
her  eyes  when  he  asked  her  not  to  tell  his  mother 
— Mi-yah-tis  would  only  wail  at  night  over  this 
evil. 

As  he  sat  with  his  dream-face  turned  to  the 
west  a  conviction  came  to  him  that  he  would  not 
get  well  again.  His  people  always  died  when 
stricken  with  the  lung  disease,  they  always  went  to 
the  Happy  Hunting  Ground.  Even  now  his 
strength  was  not  coming  back  to  him.  No,  Mi- 
yah-tis  would  soon  be  without  Mas-ki-sis.  Poor 
old  Mi-yah-tis,  of  whom  the  villagers  were  talk- 
ing evil,  as  the  white  men  had  said. 

Then  a  thought  of  the  danger  that  threatened 
from  the  villagers  occurred  to  him.  He  would 
watch,  and  also  plead  with  Wolf  Runner  to  go 
back  to  VermiHon. 


246 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

As  the  purple  light  died  out  of  the  western 
sky,  and  the  flowers  and  the  gaudy  leaves  and  the 
grass  lost  their  Identity  of  pattern  In  the  gray  that 
spread  over  the  earth,  Mas-kl-sis  slipped  away 
from  the  lodge  and  wandered  among  the  poplars, 
and  on  to  the  tepees  of  the  creek  dwellers.  In 
front  of  the  lodge  of  NIstas  an  Indian  thumped  his 
tom-tom;  its  sonorous  boom  was  a  gathering-call 
— a  summons  to  the  dwellers  to  meet.  Perhaps 
they  were  going  to  gamble,  for  they  often  played 
throughout  the  whole  night. 

As  the  Indians  and  breeds  assembled,  Mas-kl- 
sis  saw  there  was  no  preparation  for  a  gambling- 
bout;  there  was  no  circle  formed  of  figures  squat- 
ted on  the  ground,  their  knees  covered  by  a  blanket 
under  which  the  player  hid  the  guessing  bean.  It 
must  be  a  council,  the  little  lad  thought,  as  he  sat 
In  the  low  bushes  and  watched.  The  words  of  big 
Sandy  rang  in  his  ears — "  The  breeds  and  nichies 
are  like  coyotes — there'll  be  murder  done.'*  What 
if  this  gathering  was  for  the  purpose  of  plotting 
against  the  lodge  of  Wolf  Runner? 

247 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  boy  became  fascinated  by  the  terrible  Idea ; 
if  he  could  but  find  out — could  but  hear.  Well 
he  knew  the  method  of  the  Crees  when  one  of 
the  tribe  was  denounced  as  a  witch  or  a  weh- 
tlgo  (one  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit).  The 
Indians,  taking  their  own  safety  as  justification, 
acted  with  barbaric  ferocity;  the  accused  one 
was  executed  without  compunction  and  without 
trial. 

Those  who  had  answered  the  imperious  call  of 
the  tom-tom  had  passed  into  the  big  lodge  of  Nis- 
tas.  Night  had  come,  folding  its  bat  wings  of 
darkness  about  the  tepees.  Mas-ki-sis  crept  trem- 
blingly to  the  back  of  the  council  lodge,  and,  lying 
flat  on  the  earth,  listened  to  those  who  talked 
within.  Surely  it  was  some  good  spirit,  watching 
over  the  simple-minded  old  squaw  whose  heart  was 
filled  with  no  greater  evil  than  faithfulness  to  her 
husband  and  immeasurable  love  for  her  little  son, 
that  had  drawn  the  boy  within  hearing  of  the  su- 
perstitious ones  that  plotted  in  the  tepee  of  Nistas. 

Undoubtedly  all  the  troubles  that  had  come  to 
them  were  of  the  medicine-making  of  Wolf  Run- 
ner's squaw;  Mas-ki-sis  heard  that  through  the 
skin  walls.  Then  Nistas  told  once  more  of  having 
seen  the  Cree  woman  with  the  little  figure  that  was 
certainly  bad  medicine.  Now  Wolf  Runner  and 
his  evil  woman  had  come  back  again,  and  more 

248 


The  Blood  Lilies 

trouble  would  accrue  to  the  good  people  of  Otter 
Creek. 

There  could  be  no  harm  in  destroying  the  mis- 
chief-maker; even  if  Wolf  Runner,  and  the  boy 
that  was  Mas-ki-sis,  were  also  killed,  there  would 
be  no  one  to  tell  the  redcoats  of  how  they  had 
come  by  their  deaths.  The  palefaces  who  were 
of  the  Government  cared  not  for  the  ways  of  the 
red  men  that  had  been  for  all  time,  and  would 
seek  to  send  to  Stony  Mountain  the  executioners 
of  the  wicked  Wolf  Runner  and  his  squaw.  Had 
it  not  been  their  way,  the  way  of  the  Crees,  even 
before  the  time  of  the  great  chief  Sweet-Grass,  that 
a  wehtigo,  or  one  who  made  bad  medicine,  should 
be  put  to  death  ? 

And  Nistas,  who  had  the  wisdom  of  a  carcajou, 
said  that  they  might  take  the  bodies  in  a  cart  to 
the  great  muskeg,  saying  that  Wolf  Runner  had 
gone  away,  and  nobody  would  know  of  their  right- 
eous act. 

Ugh!  if  Nistas  had  been  a  brave,  she  would 
have  made  a  great  chief  because  of  her  wisdom. 

That  night,  as  those  in  Wolf  Runner's  tepee 
slept,  this  act  of  justice  would  be  completed;  for 
the  faith  of  the  Crees  was  that  one  who  was  killed 
in  the  hour  of  darkness  went  not  to  the  Happy 
Hunting  Ground. 

Mas-ki-sis  had  heard  enough.  He  wormed  his 
249 


The  Blood  Lilies 

thin  body  away  from  the  tepee,  and  ran  with  soft 
steps  a  little  into  the  poplar  bluff.  How  was  he  to 
save  his  people? 

Once  he  started  in  haste  to  warn  them ;  suddenly 
he  stopped.  Like  a  vision  all  that  would  happen 
flashed  before  the  eyes  of  his  mind,  made  acute  by 
intensity  of  feeling.  The  evil  ones  in  Nista's  tepee 
had  said:  "  When  Wolf  Runner  and  those  of  his 
lodge  sleep,  we  will  do  this  thing." 

Mas-ki-sis  knew  that  until  he  returned,  his 
mother  would  keep  the  little  fire  ablaze  with  dry 
sticks,  and  would  sit  and  wait  for  him.  Even  if 
the  slayers  crept  close  they  would  see  the  broad 
shadow  of  Mi-yah-tis  reflected  on  the  thin  walls 
of  the  lodge  by  the  fire-light,  and  would  know  that 
they  were  still  awake.  If  he  went  now  and  warned 
Wolf  Runner  there  would  be  bustle;  perhaps  his 
father,  who  was  of  a  fierce  mind,  might  refuse  to 
be  controlled,  and  precipitate  the  evil.  If  they  fled, 
the  others  would  pursue,  and  there  would  be  no 
escape.  There  was  but  one  hope — Sandy  Ogama. 
Yes,  weak  as  he  was,  unequal  to  the  task,  Mas-ki- 
sis  must  race  to  the  shack  of  their  big  friend  and 
save  his  parents. 

Through  the  night-gloom  the  little  Indian  sped 
over  the  mile  trail  that  stretched  to  Fort  Donald, 
many  times  the  poor,  worn-out  lungs  choking  and 
holding  not  enough  of  air  to  vitalize  his  body. 

250 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Then  he  would  rest  for  a  few  seconds,  feaful  that 
his  cough  would  cause  someone  to  stop  him.  Once 
— it  was  near  the  end  of  the  journey  that  had 
lasted  for  a  lifetime,  for  years  and  years — as  he 
choked,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  lips  and  something 
hot  and  wet  splashed  against  it.  How  weak  he 
was — how  slow  he  moved !  He  was  running  in  a 
nightmare — his  limbs  were  of  lead;  and  the  night- 
air  was  heavy  with  hot  ashes  or  dust,  or  some- 
thing that  smothered.  Surely  he  had  been  an  hour 
coming  that  long,  dark,  tortuous  mile ;  and  his  poor 
old  mother,  innocent  of  harm  to  anything  or  any- 
body, would  be  slain.  "  O  Manitou !  O  God  I  " — 
for  in  the  mission  they  had  taught  him  to  pray  to 
God — "  just  for  a  little  strength  to  reach  Sandy 
Ogama's  shack."  After  that  what  came  to  himself 
did  not  matter. 

Running  feebly  down  the  one  street  of  Fort 
Donald,  just  at  the  Company's  store  he  struck  full 
into  a  body  of  much  weight;  the  shock  brought 
him  to  his  knees.  A  rough  voice  cursed  him,  and 
a  strong  hand  grasped  his  collar.  Surely  Manitou 
— even  God — had  forsaken  him.  The  tattered  life 
was  so  frail  that  he  felt  it  slipping  away.  In  his 
ears  was  the  noise  of  tom-toms,  and  bells  such  as 
braves  wore  at  the  Sun-Dance.  Was  he  journey- 
ing to  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground  ? 

A  rude  shake  at  his  collar  brought  back  his  wa- 
251 


The  Blood  Lilies 

vering  senses ;  It  loosened  his  lungs  so  they  worked 
again.  He  had  strength  for  just  one  cry.  "  Ogama 
Sandy!  "  he  called;  and  his  voice  was  piteous  in 
its  appeal  for  help. 

Then  the  rolling  thunder  of  the  tom-toms  pos- 
sessed him  again ;  but  it  was  the  noise  of  heavy  feet, 
and  a  rough  Scotch  voice  was  saying:  "  What  are 
ye  up  to  with  that  kid,  ye  damn'  nichie?  " 

Mas-ki-sis  knew  the  voice;  it  was  Malcolm's. 
The  hand  cast  loose  from  his  collar,  and  its  owner, 
muttering,  slipped  away  in  the  gloom. 

"  O  Ogama,"  said  the  boy,  in  Cree,  *'  those  of 
a  bad  heart  are  even  now  preparing  a  death  for 
Mi-yah-tis ;  I  was  going  to  Sandy  Ogama." 

"  Mas-ki-sis!  "  exclaimed  Malcolm,  in  astonish- 
ment; "  ye  poor  little  lad!  " 

Gathering  the  boy  in  his  arms  the  Scot  raced, 
strong-legged,  to  the  shack  of  his  father.  There 
Mas-ki-sis — and  Malcolm  still  had  him  in  his 
arms — told  of  the  plot. 

"  Man,  I  thocht  it — I  feared  It,"  commented 
Cameron.  *' Wife,  ye'll  just  watch  the  balrnie — ■ 
may  the  Lord  spare  the  little  nichie,  for  yon's  red 
on  his  lips,  I'm  thinkin'."  Then  the  big  Scotch- 
man's voice  choked,  and,  reaching  a  rifle  from  the 
wall  above  his  bed,  he  handed  a  shot-gun  to  Mal- 
colm. "  The  Imps  o'  Satan'll  no'  do  their  wicked 
work  the  night,  please  God  we're  no'  too  late. 

252 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Nurse  the  bairn,  wife;  just  haud  him  in  yer  arms, 
an'  dinna  let  him  d'e,  for  he's  a  Christian." 

"  Hurry,  Ogama!  "  gasped  Mas-ki-sis. 

*'  Come,  Malcolm.  Dinna  let  him  d'e,  wife." 
And  out  into  the  night  that  was  jewelled  beyond 
all  count  with  star  gems  set  high,  and  that  seemed 
so  full  of  peace  and  quiet  on  earth,  the  two  hur- 
ried. At  the  Company's  Residence,  Sandy  banged 
the  door  with  his  hard  knuckles  until  it  jumped  on 
its  hinges. 

As  it  swung  open,  Cameron,  standing  on  the  step, 
called  to  Gourelot,  who  was  just  within:  "  Factor, 
we're  awa'  doon  tae  Otter  Creek.  The  de'ls  are 
for  murderin'  the  ould  wife  o'  Wolf  Runner. 
Hitch  up  yer  buckboard,  mon,  an'  mak'  haste 
doon." 

Before  the  plump  Frenchman,  astonished  to 
silence,  could  find  speech,  Cameron  was  lost  in  the 
night. 

There  was  only  the  rhythmic  murmur  of  the 
Saskatchewan  waters  as  they  glided  swiftly  by  the 
smooth-worn  mud-banks,  and  over  them  hung  a 
cloud  of  white  vapor.  The  face  of  the  land  was 
blotted  to  an  indistinct  unison,  and  the  two  men, 
hurrying  forward,  silent,  kept  the  trail  by  its  hard 
response  to  their  moccasined  feet. 

At  a  dog  lope  they  went.  As  they  dipped  Into 
the  hollow  of  Otter  Creek,  Sandy  stretched  his 

253 


The  Blood  Lilies 

arm  across  his  son's  chest  to  stay  his  eagerness. 
With  the  silent  step  of  wood-dwellers  they  contin- 
ued through  the  poplar  bluff. 

But  their  caution  was  unneeded.  A  small  rep- 
lica of  Hades  had  been  originated  in  the  tepee  of 
Wolf  Runner.  Torches  flared  on  the  outside  and 
fierce  voices  clamored  within. 

"We're  too  late,"  moaned  Sandy;  "ma  God  I 
we're  too  late  I  Into  them,  lad  I  If  Wolf  Run- 
ner's no'  deid,  we'll  fight  for  his  life." 

With  a  rush  the  giant  Scotchman  charged 
through  the  crowd  that  surrounded  the  tepee ;  the 
guards  were  bowled  over  like  ten-pins,  and  the  two 
white  men  stood  within  the  lodge,  holding  their 
weapons  as  clubs. 

If  Wie-sah-ke-chack  himself  had  suddenly 
dropped  through  the  opening  at  the  apex  of  the 
conical  structure  the  murderous  Indians  would  not 
have  been  more  startled. 

Wolf  Runner  and  Mi-yah-tis  were  lying  on  the 
ground  most  securely  enmeshed  in  shaganappi 
bonds.  The  tepee  was  crowded  with  the  tri- 
bunal. 

At  once  an  angry  babel  of  imprecation  went  up 
from  many  throats.  "  The  paleface  dogs !  The 
sons  of  dogs!  The  moneas  who  before  had  de- 
stroyed the  fire-water!  "  And  in  an  instant,  from 
the  outside,  angry  faces  were  thrust  into  the  tent 

254 


The  Blood  Lilies 

— the  faces  of  those  who  had  been  hurried  to  earth 
by  the  onslaught  of  the  Hielandmen. 

Their  own  buzzing  instilled  courage  into  the 
Indians;  and  at  best  there  were  but  two  of  the 
hated  white  skins.  An  Indian  acts  with  the  erratic 
irresponsibility  of  a  rattlesnake;  and  a  big  Cree, 
possessed  of  a  sudden  desire  to  distinguish  him- 
self, whipped  out  a  horn-handled  buffalo-knife, 
and,  springing  forward,  lunged  at  Malcolm's 
broad  chest.  The  knife  would  surely  have  gone 
home,  through  a  lung  at  least,  had  not  Sandy's 
massive  fist  fallen  athwart  the  brave's  nose,  to  the 
utter  demolition  of  the  latter. 

**  Be  quiet,  dog  o'  a  nichie !  "  roared  the  Scotch- 
man, as  the  redskin  pitched  headlong  to  the  mud 
floor. 

"Hold!  dinna  shoot!"  Sandy  ejaculated, 
throwing  up  the  gun  that  Malcolm  had  levelled  at 
the  crumpled  knifer.  Then,  clubbing  his  own  Win- 
chester, he  glared  at  the  Indians,  and  said:  "  The 
first  one  that  makes  mischief,  I'll  smash  him.  Ye 
just  talk  in  peace,  friends,"  he  continued,  **  for 
ye'll  all  get  into  trouble  o'er  this." 

It  was  Nistas,  Nistas  the  much  wise,  who  stood 
forward;  and  in  her  mind  was  a  quick  plan  that 
was  to  save  them  from  the  consequences  of  their 
frustrated  crime. 

"  My  friends,  the  ogama  is  right.  We  are  as 
255 


The  Blood  Lilies 

foolish  as  children.  I  will  speak  with  a  straight 
tongue,  because  we  are  all  honest,  and  if  there  is  no 
lie,  there  will  be  no  trouble.  We  have  done  no 
harm,"  she  continued,  addressing  big  Sandy; 
"  Wolf  Runner's  woman  made  bad  medicine 
against  many  of  my  people.  I,  who  am  Nistas, 
saw  the  medicine.  Then  the  woman  of  Wolf 
Runner  went  away  because  Nistas  had  seen  this. 
Now  she  has  come  back,  and  my  people  have  tied 
Wolf  Runner  because  he  threatened  to  kill  us.  We, 
being  afraid  of  the  bad  medicine,  came  to  take 
the  woman  of  Wolf  Runner  to  the  factor  oga- 
ma,  that  he  might  send  her  away  forever.  That 
is  all  my  people  have  done — for  that  we  are 
here." 

"  Of  all  the  liars!  "  exclaimed  Malcolm. 

"  She's  that,"  commented  Sandy;  "  but  ye'll  no 
prove  it.  Untie  them,"  he  commanded,  nodding 
to  the  bound  prisoners.  "  The  factorUl  be  here, 
an'  we'll  see  into  this." 

And  sure  enough,  as  he  ceased  speaking,  Louis 
Gourelot,  having  come  in  his  buckboard,  and  with 
him  being  as  many  men  as  could  cling  to  the  old 
vehicle,  came  puiEng  and  elbowing  his  way  into  the 
tepee. 

"  Mon  Dieul  "  he  cried;  "  always  trouble  from 
ze  nichie.  Have  they  kill  somebody,  M'sieu 
Sandy?" 

256 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Cameron  explained.  Also  they  must  constitute 
themselves  into  a  court  of  inquiry.  It  was  all  very 
well  to  knock  flat  a  charging  Indian  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand,  in  fact,  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  do ; 
but  the  Indians  as  a  body  were  like  children — they 
believed  in  the  godless  medicine-making,  which 
was  a  play-toy  of  the  devil,  according  to  the  Cal- 
vinist.  But  still,  they,  as  Christians,  and  having 
the  welfare  of  the  Company  at  heart,  must  humor 
the  pagans,  and  pacify  the  many  by  punishing 
somebody. 

Sandy,  speaking  with  the  factor  on  the  side,  de- 
clared his  belief  that  Nistas  had  been  practising  the 
medicine-making  for  gain;  and  to  shield  herself, 
and  out  of  revenge  against  Wolf  Runner,  had  ac- 
cused Mi-yah-tis. 

"  Now,"  said  big  Sandy,  turning  to  the  Indians, 
"  we  must  put  a  stop  to  the  medicine-making;  and 
the  factor  will  just  discover  the  guilty  one.  Who 
will  speak  first?  " 

"  It  is  the  woman  of  Wolf  Runner,''  said  Nis- 
tas. "  See,  Ogama,  here  is  the  medicine  we  found 
where  she  hid  it." 

It  was  the  little  birch-bark  image  of  Mas-ki- 
sis  that  the  mother,  out  of  a  yearning  love,  had 
dreamed  into  an  actual  presence  of  the  boy.  Poor, 
harmless  little  toy,  crude  embodiment  of  her  su- 
perb affection,  conjured  by  the  evil  Nistas  into  a 

257 


The  Blood  Lilies 

condemning  instrument  that  had  all  but  caused  its 
creator's  death. 

"  What  say  you,  Mi-yah-tis?  "  asked  the  factor. 

'*  It  is  only  little  Mas-ki-sis,"  pleaded  the 
woman.  "  When  my  heart  was  feeling  long,  this 
that  was  Mas-ki-sis " 

Sandy  suddenly  remembered  something  which  in 
the  excitement  he  had  forgotten.  "  Mas-ki-sis  is  at 
my  shack,"  he  said,  speaking  to  the  Cree  woman. 

Her  eyes  lighted  up  with  joy;  she  had  been  too 
frightened  to  ask  for  him. 

Then  she  spoke  again :  "  I  think  it  is  Nistas  who 
has  cast  the  evil  eye  upon  Mas-ki-sis,  for  he  droops 
like  the  purple  moose-flower  when  the  hot  wind  of 
the  forest-fire  passes  over  it.  I  think  it  is  Nistas 
who  made  the  bad  medicine  in  the  tepees  of  Ot- 
ter Creek;  she  is  a  medicine-woman;  I  am  only 
woman  of  Wolf  Runner,  to  keep  his  lodge  in  or- 
der and  take  care  of  Mas-ki-sis.  I  did  not  know 
that  the  people  spoke  ill  of  me  when  I  went  to 
Fort  Garry ;  then  I  came  back,  and  to-night,  when 
it  was  dark,  I  went  out  to  look  for  little  Otter — 
for  he  was  not  in  the  lodge — and  these  people  took 
hold  of  me,  crying  they  would  kill  me  because  of 
something.  Then  the  ogama  came ;  that  is  all  Mi- 
yah-tis  knows." 

"  That's  no  lie,"  commented  Malcolm. 

"  Is  there  another  to  speak?  "  queried  Sandy. 
258 


The  Blood  Lilies 

Then  Many  Flowers,  a  Cree  woman  who  had 
been  standing  at  the  door,  came  forward  and  said : 
"  O,  Ogama,  this  Evil  Spirit  that  makes  trouble 
is  in  the  lodge  of  Nistas;  and  because  of  that  Lit- 
tle Bear,  who  is  the  husband  of  Many  Flowers,  has 
been  taken  from  me.  Did  not  Half  Moon  give 
Nistas  the  tobacco,  and  the  red  shawl,  and  many 
things  to  make  medicine  that  Little  Bear  might  sit 
in  her  lodge,  leaving  Many  Flowers  to  cry,  and  cry, 
and  be  alone?  That  is  truth,  Ogama,  and  in  the 
box  that  is  in  Nistas's  lodge  is  the  bad  medicine. 
It  is  not  the  woman  of  Wolf  Runner.  She  is  stupid, 
like  a  she-bear  that  eats  many  berries;  she  knows 
not  medicine-making.  Many  Flowers  was  afraid 
and  did  not  speak,  but  the  ogama  is  here,  and  she 
is  not  afraid  now.'' 

"  You  hear,"  said  Cameron.  "  If  it  is  the  truth, 
we  will  find  the  medicine  as  Many  Flowers  says. 
We  will  go  to  the  lodge  of  Nistas." 

There  was  neither  assent  nor  dissent  from  the 
Indians.  Nistas,  unsuspected  of  the  evil,  might  be 
accepted  as  a  leader;  but  if  she  were  a  maker  of 
bad  medicine,  perhaps  they  would  also  put  her  to 
death  with  the  clubs,  as  they  would  have  visited 
crude  justice  upon  the  woman  of  Wolf  Runner. 

"  We  will  go  together,"  said  Sandy.  And  to 
Malcolm  he  added:  "  Dinna  let  the  she-fox  gie  us 
the  slip  tae  hide  onything." 

259 


The  Blood  Lilies 

The  court  was  adjourned  to  the  other  lodge; 
and  a  search  brought  forth  a  most  complete  outfit 
for  the  manipulation  of  spirit  influences.  Nistas's 
stock-in-trade  was  in  a  small  hardwood  box,  brass- 
bound  on  the  corners. 

It  was  Sandy  who  explored  its  contents.  An 
elk's  tusk  carved  with  strange  symbols;  a  little  ivory 
fish  studded  with  inlaid  dots  of  iron — this  had  come 
from  the  land  of  the  Eskimo ;  a  string  of  toe-bones ; 
a  fragment  of  scalp-lock;  and  three  little  packets 
of  human  hair  bound  together:  all  these  barbaric 
trinkets  were  brought  forth. 

"  O  Ogama,"  said  Many  Flowers,  "  this  is  not 
the  medicine  of  Little  Bear — it  is  that,'^  as  Sandy 
lifted  out  a  roll  of  red  cloth.  The  Scotchman  un- 
wound yards  of  the  thin  strip;  and  then  there  was 
a  wrapping  of  silk-like  birch-bark,  and  the  very 
core  of  It  was  two  small  figures  bound  together 
with  the  hair  of  NIstas. 

"  It  is  Little  Bear,"  commented  Many  Flowers. 

'*  It  Is  the  bad  medicine,"  ejaculated  an  old 
Indian  who  was  versed  in  such  matters. 

"  What  think  you,  nichles?  "  asked  Cameron. 

The  old  Indian  of  medicine-knowledge  spoke: 
"  O,  Ogama,  NIstas  should  tell  us  with  straight 
speech  that  she  has  done  this  thing,  so  that  we  may 
put  her  to  death  like  a  wehtlgo,  for  that  Is  the  way 
of  our  people.     If  NIstas  speaks  with  a  forked 

260 


The  Blood  Lilies 

tongue,  and  says  she  has  not  done  this,  we  can  put 
no  one  to  death,  and  the  evil  will  still  be  upon  us." 

"  Factor,"  Sandy  said,  "  they're  awfu'  pagans. 
Wha's  the  proper  thing  tae  do,  mon?  " 

''  Mon  Dieu,  M'sieu  Sandy,  la  femme  is  ze 
devil  always.  We  mus'  take  Nistas  to  ze  fort  an* 
p'raps  send  her  to  Stony  Mountain." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  they'll  mak'  trouble  if  we  dinna 
let  them  kill  somebody — they're  bloodthirsty  de'ils. 
But  I  hae  a  plan." 

"  Oui,  M'sieu.  Always  you  have  ze  good  plan. 
If  you  knock  ze  nichie  flat,  that  is  good;  if  you 
feed  him,  hurrah!  Big  Sandy  is  ogama.  Tres 
bien,  allez,  M'sieu." 

Sanctioned,  Cameron  spoke  to  the  Indians,  say- 
ing that  he  would  bum  the  medicine,  and  make  the 
white  man's  prayer,  which  would  forever  drive  it 
from  the  camp ;  they  would  send  Nistas  away,  be- 
cause if  she  were  put  to  death  the  redcoats  would 
surely  come  and  hang  every  one  of  them. 

This  innovation  provoked  discussion  of  inter- 
minable length.  It  was  difficult  to  understand  of 
their  untutored  minds  why  they  should  be  punished 
if  Nistas  were  cut  off  from  her  wickedness.  But 
they  were  accustomed  to  bend  to  the  will  of  the 
great  Company,  and  in  the  end  Sandy's  plan  was 
adopted. 

The  white  men,  when  the  work  of  justice  had 
261 


The  Blood  Lilies 

been  completed,  journeyed  back  to  Fort  Donald, 
taking  Nistas  with  them. 

Speaking  to  Factor  Gourelot,  just  as  they 
started,  Cameron  said:  "  We'll  take  the  auld  wife 
o'  Wolf  Runner,  for  Fm  thinkin'  the  puir  body'U 
find  Mas-ki-sis  deid,  or  close  tae  it.  Puir  body! 
Man!  but  the  little  Indian  came  like  a  Christian 
to  save  his  auld  mither.  God  grant  the  puir  lad- 
die is  no'  sae  bad;  but  Fm  af eared  o'  it,  mon,  Fm 
afeared  o'  it.     Puir  laddie. 

''  Just  gie  the  auld  body  a  lift  i'  the  buckboard. 
Factor,  Fll  walk — Fm  no  tired;  an'  Malcolm'll 
walk." 

The  buckboard  went  no  faster  than  the  others 
strode,  and  together  they  came  to  the  shack  of 
Cameron.  Big  Sandy  called,  "  Jeanie !  Jeanie !  " 
and,  when  the  door  was  opened,  he  gently  pushed 
the  Cree  woman  inside,  and,  closing  it,  stood  with 
his  back  to  it. 

*'  Fll  no'  go  in  just  yet.  Factor,"  he  said.  "  I 
dinna  want  tae  look  at  the  little  Christian  for  a 
bit." 

And  when  the  others  had  gone,  big  Cameron, 

huge  of  structure  and  great  in  gentleness,  stood  in 

the  damp  night-air,  knowing  that  Jeanie,  who  was 

a  mother,  and  the  Cree  woman,  who  was  mother 

to  Mas-ki-sis,  would  be  better  alone.     And  above 

him,    in   the    dead-gray   wall   of  night,    hung    a 

blood-red  moon. 

262 


By    W.    A.    FRASER 

Mooswa  and  Others 
of  the  Boundaries 

Illustrated    by    ARTHUR    HE  MING 

"  Takes  its  place  at  once  beside  the  Jungle  Book. 
...  A  group  of  stories,  capitally  told,  of  the  lives 
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northwestern  Canada,  which,  besides  being  good 
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tion about  the  lives  of  these  animals,  their  relations 
with  each  other,  their  food,  and  how  they  build  their 
houses." — Boston  Herald. 

*'  This  book  is  a  delightful  picture  of  the  woodland 
life  of  the  vast  stretches  of  that  flank  of  the  Rockies 
toward  the  Arctic  Circle  ...  It  is  one  of  the  best 
nature  books  ever  published." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

8vo,  $2.00 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York 


By   W.    A.    FRASER 

THE 
OUTCASTS 

Strikingly    Illustrated    by 
ARTHUR  HEMING 

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